Set in Stone
by Yet Another Dark Rose
Summary: Seven years ago, the US fell into the greedy hands of the Fatass. Kyle Broflovski has spent the last six of those years locked up by the very same man, with a window as his last string to reality. Stan/Kyle and slight Cartman/Kyle
1. In a Mind that is Still Working

First South Park fic submitted, not first written, mind you. We'll just see how it goes.

Disclaimer: South Park belongs to Matt and Trey, not me.

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Set in Stone

He drummed his fingers against the plastic glass that acted as a window. Beyond the plastic was a plate of glass, the most fragile layer, and between the plastic and the glass were the bars, thick and made out of cold metal. It did not take a genius to figure out their purpose.

The window confused him. In a way, he loved it for giving him some kind of freedom. But in another way, he despised it for showing him how bad the world had gone and how limited his freedom was. For crying out loud, he couldn't even reach the glass, feel the chill of the last layer against his fingertips.

Sometimes when he looked out, he saw small human shapes moving in the darkness of the night, hidden by the extended shadows. They travelled toward the building he was locked within, whether it was a castle or a grand mansion he didn't know. But by god, he really didn't want it to be a castle. Locked up in the highest tower in an ancient castle by an evil Fatass, epic much? But he was fairly sure it wasn't a tower at least. He could hear noises coming from all sides during the daytime, and the building did not seem to be that old. That, along with the fact that he would hardly be saved by a knight in shining armor, offered him some comfort.

In any case, whoever the people sneaking across fields and forests were, they didn't seem to get much done. During the time he had spent locked up in his room, (what was it, five, six years?) he had only experienced three real emergencies. On the bright side, two of those had been in the last four months, which might mean that La Resistance was finally getting somewhere. He hoped they would blow up whatever building he was currently occupied in, if only so he would know that Fatass had burned with him.

Some in his situation might have felt gratitude towards the Fatass for pulling them out of what was left of the country, torn apart by war, to grant them a nice bed; rich food; and warm, fitting clothes. Kyle, on the other hand, would have rather died on his position as a rebel but no, instead of being blessed with a bullet through his head it went through his shoulder, causing him to lose consciousness and later to wake up in the gigantic bed he had been sleeping in for years now.

While he didn't know for sure, he had had several ideas as to why he had been kept like a fragile princess. The first one was that he was to be tortured to death, for information of just for the heck of it, but that seemed less and less likely. Another was that he was a tool to be bargained with, but that was also unlikely, since Fatass had told him that everyone on the outside thought he was dead. Other thoughts had appeared briefly, such as being forced to work as a tactician for the Fatass, though that would be rather stupid as he would intentionally mess up the plans. Even Fatass's pea brain was big enough to understand that one did not put an enemy if control of one's troops. Besides, Kyle had made it very clear on several occasions that he would rather die than gamble with the lives of those he had fought beside. Another possibility was that he was there to keep the Fatass's bed warm. He shuddered at the thought of the last one and felt very glad that that was not the case.

At that moment, it would seem that being a way for Fatass to blow off steam was the most probable. But sometimes, the one about the bed unwillingly plopped up in his thoughts, usually when his captor had one of his strange moments, gently cradling Kyle's chin in his hand, brushing against his cheekbones with his thumb, or tugging on a red strand of hair, pulling it out until it was straight only to let it go and watch it bounce back into place. The small, off note touches were about the only thing Fatass could scare him with, although his pig brain thankfully had not caught on to it yet. The best he could do in those situations were to stand still and let it happen. Later, he and the Fatass would pretend they had never occurred.

Although he would never admit it out loud, the touches actually were rather nice. They didn't feel sexual to him; though he knew they could be taken that way. At times, he forgot just to whom the calloused hand belonged and sank into the comfort, lost in the time that was, the time before his captivity, even before Fatass had started with his planning of world concurring.

Stan, he would think, while caressing the base of his finger, warm metal licking his fingertips. It wasn't quite an engagement ring, more of a promise ring, due to Kyle's adversity of referring to Stan as his fiancé. Stan hadn't really cared, he rarely did. He was just happy to have a glint of sunshine to light up the darkness that engulfed them. He would happily have referred to them as butt-buddies if it meant that they acknowledged their bond. Kyle, who in childhood had been called every word remotely close to the word fairy by the sadistic Fatass and had his mother's domestic blood in his veins, wanted things done his way.

When he had found out that it was indeed his childhood tormentor that kept him where he was, he had taken the ring and hidden it within the mattress, subtly in order to not wake suspicion through those damnable cameras. After two months he dared to take it out again, resulting in plenty of mocking from the Fatass, but that was only to be expected. What did surprise him though, was that he made no move to relieve him of the tiny piece of metal. Suddenly the ring, previously something that had made him feel slightly embarrassed when eyes lay upon it, now made him straighten up his back and square his shoulders. Kyle Broflovski belonged only to those he gave himself to. He was not someone to be bought or stolen.

That day, just knowing that was enough. Days would come, had come, when he wished that the bars were away from the window in order to throw himself out through it. There were plenty of other ways to do it, end it, but the window was special. It promised freedom, yet never gave it; therefore he considered it only appropriate to use it in that order, force it to fulfil its promise.

But most of the time he was not prepared to just lie down and give up. His chances of escaping were less than zero. If a fire, or something of the same kind of occurrence, broke out, the Fatass would probably have him be toasted rather than give him the opportunity to flee. If he would return to La Resistance after several years of captivity, it would bring them hope; something that the almighty sadist tried to avoid at all costs.

No, he would spend the rest of his days stuck in a luxurious room, which he would trade with a leaking tent in the Amazon together with his best friend in less than a heartbeat. Hopefully, the walls of his vile "home" would fall within his lifetime and allow him to witness the fall of the fat one, even if it would result in his own demise. Until then, all he could do was to slowly reduce Fatass's food and water supply by living.

Perhaps La Resistance would search through the ruins after their fall. Perhaps Stan would be with them. Perhaps he would recognise the ring and the body on which it belonged. Perhaps he would be given a proper grave with a stone and a few kind words.

Perhaps, his heart whispered. Perhaps. But in his mind he doubted it.

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That's it, for now at least. I'm playing with the thought of making this a multi-chapter, but I'm not sure. Hope you enjoyed ^^

And if anyone is wondering, yes, the lack of Fatass's name was intended.

Edit: I've corrected a few strange sentences and grammatical mistakes along with spelling errors. If you've noticed anything strange, tell me.


	2. Bringing out the Blueprints

It looks like i couldn't keep my hands away from this after all. Also, I made a few changes in Chap I, but nothing major and the story is the same.

To thequillofdestiny: I hope you got your answers, at least to some degree. Thanks for reading ^^

To Lonely Jew: Wow, that's a lot of praise and pressure. I hope I'll manage to keep your interest though, and thank you, it means a lot.

On to the story.

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Chapter II – Bringing out the Blueprints

_Ten years earlier_

_Senator Jonathan Jefferson was tired, and so he had been for quite some time. Long lost was the time when his friends and family smiled at him with approval and support, like they had shortly after he had declared he was running for President. Janet; his beautiful, passionate wife, had kissed his cheek and teasingly told him that he would be the first president in quite a while to swear the oath while still possessing his original hair colour._

_After fifteen years of running without success, things had changed. The muscle that once had lined his limbs had loosened, along with his sharp features. Hair once the colour of coal was now speckled with grey spots and had lost its shine, as had his eyes. He had started out as a young man who started the marathon with a spurt, eager to find out what he would find along the course, Now he was but a bitter old man who had lost his spirit after spending his whole life running toward a goal he still could not see, and was beginning to think had never even existed. Not for him, in any case. _

_Yet he could not seem to stop running, quite literally. After so many years of intense fighting to promote himself, he simply did not know how not to. It was not much he had left. His former friends had formed new alliances and forgotten all about him, the promising young man he had once been. And his wife barely looked his way nowadays. _

_Then one day he came, promising praise and good fortunes. For weeks he dismissed the stubborn young man that seemed to pop up just about everywhere, speaking of how he would help him on the path to becoming President of the United States. It was a ridiculous thought; the young man could not be older than seventeen. But finally, after weeks of resisting the tempting offers, the young man reached him and made him listen. With wide eyes he listened as the youth spoke to him not only about power and riches, but also about glory and fame. Without really noticing it, he was slowly being brought in by the charms of Eric Cartman._

Present Time, 2030.

At first he thought that the low rumble was nothing but a fragment of his imagination; after all, he was still asleep when he felt the first shivers. As the bed started to tremble hard enough to actually stir him awake, he began to reconsider that thought. The hard reality crashed down on him completely as he fell out of the bed, which was buckling like a wild bull. He was forced to quickly roll out of its way in order to avoid being completely squashed by the heavy piece of furniture.

Still in a state somewhere between being awake and sleeping, he stumbled onto his feet, feeling slightly better standing up. With a start he realised that it wasn't only his bed that was affected but rather his whole room. The very walls quavered and filled the air with fine dust of concrete and stone, enough to give the air a somewhat misty look but still clean enough to breathe without much coughing.

The small particles stung in his eyes and not for the first time did he wish that he was able to open the window. Pressing his forehead against the cool surface, he took deep breaths of the fresh air that flowed in small streams through the small, invisible holes around the edge of the glass. A sudden bright flash on the other side burned his eyes and forced him to jerk back. After rubbing his eyes in order to get that annoying sting to leave, he turned his slightly damaged eyes out toward the grounds outside.

The sky, usually as black as the feathers of a raven, was grey, alight from the many spotlights installed on the building, all directed toward the ground. With narrowed eyes, not willing to miss anything due to being temporarily blinded again, he once again pressed his face practically flat against the plastic, every once in a while using the sleeve of his pajama shirt to rub at the steam that gathered.

How he had managed to not hear the ruckus outside he did not know, but it hit him like a wall now that he was awake. Yells and screaming came from both within the building and the outside, always rising in strength after an explosion.

His green eyes scanned the grounds for familiar shapes, not really sure whether he wished to spot them or not, the need to see for himself that his friends and comrades were all right was battling against the fear that they would have gotten hurt. However, he was left no choice in the matter as a blue globe appeared out of nowhere, just by the edge of his field of vision. Although he by all means should not be able to make out any certain features of those inside the sphere, his heart took a leap. He would recognize those golden locks anywhere, even if they where tinted blue by the wall of light that stood between them.

"Kenny..."

His voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours without a drop of water to soothe his throat, something that completely went by him. A force came over him, a fire in his heart that he hadn't felt in years, causing him to look past wit and reason and had him banging on the plastic glass frantically. "Kenny! KENNY!"

The strength of the alarm going on around and inside him was almost scary; he was startled to hear his own voice screaming, ten times louder than it had ever been during the last years. Screaming at Fatass was a big no-no and usually meant that he would be spending two to three weeks without any human contact at all. The tub of lard might be among the most unpleasant beings on and below the surface of the Earth, but he was the only thing that stood between Kyle and insanity.

Kenny did not hear him, nor did anyone else. They continued their march, the entire troop of about thirty men and women, side by side under the cover of the blue shield. Their feet did not move in unity as the ones of their enemies normally did, but Kyle was willing to bet that their hearts beat as one.

Why he was so desperate to gain their attention he was not aware of, perhaps he had not accepted his fate as he thought he had, or maybe he just wanted to say goodbye. Something made him dig his nails into the plastic hard enough to break them at the root, causing small trails of blood start to start trickling from them. He hadn't noticed just how long they had gotten and flinched at the unexpected pain.

He could not get through the plastic, at least not with his own hands. The urge to break through it had been there before, but he had never really acted upon it, knowing that the bars were sufficient enough to keep him inside. But this time he knew that he could not just let the chance slip through his fingers. The thought had barely touched his mind before he reached for the bookcase, his idle fingers quickly finding what he was looking for: an old, worn copy of the Torah.

Kyle had never been overly religious, the only reason he even kept up the traditions of his people when he was young was to keep his mother happy; and the reason he as to why he still remained Jewish was to spite his captor, make it clear that he was still in charge of his own beliefs. The old book that had brought him so much misery the summer before his Bar Mitzvah now held the only real weapon he had come over. A rusty nail from the sofa.

It would have been useless in a confrontation; the Fatass made sure to always bring a gun with him when he entered. Still, it had given him a sense of safety, a feeling that he was somewhat capable of protecting himself. In all honesty, he had never thought that he would ever use it, but it would seem that the perfect opportunity had dawned upon him.

He clasped the nail between his hands as if it was the existence of humanity itself that was nestled between them. The sound of metal against plastic as he brought it to the first layer between him and freedom was enough to make him shiver; a determination had flared up inside him and had him acting accordingly. Again and again he had them meet, every time making the long crease that appeared in the plastic deeper and longer. Soon he had created three cracks, together forming three sides of a square and meeting in the corners, all the while watching the show outside.

The shield had now become two, and the rebels they contained fired off missiles and bombs against the building. It seemed that while the shield did protect them from being hit, it also prevented them from returning the fire as well, which meant that they were forced to leave its safety to do any damage. Fatass's soldiers seemed to have caught on to the same thing and were firing with more thought, making the battle somewhat slower but more intense.

With a clench fist Kyle managed to hit the plastic glass hard enough to make the last strands that still held it in place give after and release their hold on the plastic which now bent after his will. Grabbing a hold of the movable plastic he pulled it towards himself and somehow managed to fold it against the wall, creating a door of sorts. As his hands finally let go of it he felt the muscle in his arms strain, telling him just how little he had exercised and what his body thought of it.

Kyle didn't listen to his body though, the adrenaline was pumping through his veins hard enough to dull out any voice of reason, including his own. He was just about to look for something to smash the glass with, he could reach between the bars without a problem, when something flickered in the corner of his eye. It was the shields.

The strong, blue colour had faded bit by bit and wavered unsteadily, yet the rebels did not seem to notice. Back and forth they ran, without a thought that their defence was running weaker.

Afterwards, Kyle would curse his stupidity. Grabbing a vase or a book and throwing it against the thin layer of glass would have given the desired effect and would not have taken more time, yet his mind had not thought of it and instead he had acted purely by instinct, which was to take a swing at the glass with his bare hand, clenched to a fist. The pain of the shards piercing his skin made his face twist in agony but he barely gave it a thought. He stuck his head as far out as he could, the heat of his flushed face meeting the freezing bars.

"Kenny! KENNY! RUN! THE SHIELD! RUN!"

While Kenny McCormick should not have been able to hear the words according to just about every law active on earth, something still made him look up toward the window. He could make out the shape of a human, but it was too dark to make out much else. With a startling realisation, his attention was immediately drawn away from the person in the window as he found the sky darker than it should be.

Without a moment's hesitation he found the lives of his comrades more valuable than any minor damage they might cause on the offensive building, they would not even be able to break through the outer wall completely before the shield would have given after and they would be as good as dead.

"The shield is falling! Retreat!" He shouted out the order as he grabbed the shirts of two men just about to leave the still relatively safe bubble. Their eyes grew wide as they stared up in the sky, and the stars that now twinkled sharper. The panic spread quickly and made also those who were taking cover under the other sphere aware of what was happening. Fortunately, they managed to gather quickly under the protection they still had.

As the rebels stumbled over each others' feet in an attempt of getting out of there as quickly as possible and at the same time make time that no one lagged behind. The last man, Kenny, scanned the ground for any fallen comrades, but spotted none. Bombs were still raining over them, making the power field of the shield shiver with each hit, but thankfully the shield stayed up. His gaze wandered back to the window, but this time it was empty. A frown appeared on his face and with a shake of his head he dismissed it as imagination.

A very fortunate imagination he thought, as the shield fell just as they had reached the edge of the nearby forest. He and his comrades vanished abruptly, much faster than they had appeared, running through the dark forest to get as far away from Eric Cartman as possible before contacting their transport.

Kyle slid down the wall, uneven stones scraping against his back in a slightly uncomfortable way. He did, however, not have the strength or awareness to really care. What he had done might not have been all too strenuous on his muscles, it had all happened so quickly, yet it had been a wearing experience for his brain. Never before had he seen his friends and their allies been so close up, never mind the fact that they almost had gotten blown up.

A fury built up, for once not against those who had fought for the Fatass but for those who shared his goal. They had been terribly careless and that reckless attitude would not help them in a war against a manipulating mastermind.

Tired, he pressed his palms to his face and gave an exasperated sigh. The migraine he had developed started to act up and all he wanted was to just go asleep and forget about everything that had just happened. The reminder of just how frail and precious the human life truly was made him feel weak and vulnerable, feelings he despised wholeheartedly.

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IMPORTANT A/N: I kept this story as complete and here is why; I'm very, very afraid of making promises I cannot keep. By using the words In Progress I'm basically saying that there's more to come and while I do have most of the story mapped out in my mind I'm not 100 % sure I can promise you that I'll write it all out. I'm NOT fishing for reviews, I'm just a bit timid of saying too much. I THINK I will finish this and I promise to tell you if I'm running out of steam. Where I am now, that is not an issue but I am in need of a Beta.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Feeling for Cracks

Back again! Here is chapter three!

Quillofdestiny and Lonely Jew, thanks a lot both of you. It's nice you hear that you like it and understand. You have to tell me if you're still my little fish after this, LJ. l:)

I would also like to thank my new Beta, Elbereth Gilthoniel, for reading this through and helping me with a major mistake. Thanks a lot!

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Chapter III – Feeling for Cracks

_Nine years earlier_

_Political opinions were not unusual in South Park, quite the opposite; everyone had an opinion about something, but those opinions were more often than not extremely radical or silly; in the end they would not achieve anything as they were simply too much for the world to handle. Every once in a while a politically active person would visit South Park with a somewhat more reasonable and logical way of thinking, but were quickly scared away due to the insanity of the town and its citizens. _

_South Park was known in the higher circles all around the country as a dark pit of madness, making them peacefully ignore its existence and pretend that the small mountain town simply was a small piece of uninhabited land belonging to Switzerland. It worked surprisingly well as even though many of those who lived there wanted nothing else but to leave and never come back. Those individuals were below the age of twenty and still fairly sane, indicating that they might be able to concentrate the blatant lack of wit to that restricted area. As long as those who lacked a brain stayed in and the rest of the world stayed out, they'd be okay._

_That was the thought; alas, they had failed to notice the fact that the most part of the planet's population was, in fact, morons. Stubborn morons. Sure, there were many brilliant minds wandering the surface of the Earth, though most went by unseen. Men like Stephen Hawking and Bill Gates were put on pedestals; yet they were morons too, too caught up in the shadow of their IQ to realise their own stupidity; too much of fools to understand that true intelligence is not determined by whether or not you are able to deduct a scientific formula. Pure, animalistic intelligence is found in the animal kingdom, made up solely of basics: friend or foe? _

_Eric Cartman was a foe; it was as simple as that. Perhaps it was due to the proximity of pure, unblemished stupidity in their younger years that made so many of the children of South Park aware of the difference between the two. Or perhaps it was due to their exposure of Cartman before he had learned to cover his megalomania. In the end, it wouldn't matter._

_Inauguration Day of 2021 had the seventeen-year-olds of South Park gathered in the cellar of the Black's mansion. Usually this day was a joyous occasion, filled with hope that the new president wouldn't screw up quite as badly as the one leaving the office. Michael Thompson, the now former president of the United States of America, had finally stepped down after a heated debate between him and the rest of the country, claiming that he was the only man for the job and that he would not leave the post without a fight. In the end the security at the White House bad been forced to kick him out and a brave little journalist pointed out that the headline: "Former President won't come out of the closet!" would be seen on the first page of many newspapers and magazines. He was silenced with a bird flipping worthy of Craig Tucker._

_It was the first time they had actually seen Cartman on TV, as he stood behind President Jefferson who held his speech. They had all known that he was there, hiding in the shadows, but to actually _see_ him was a whole other thing. None of them heard a word of the speech, everyone's gaze lay upon the robust young man behind their new President. Quietly they all huddled together, not a word uttered, as they all were able to make out that certain glint in Eric's otherwise charming hazel eyes, a glint they knew meant trouble._

Present time, 2030.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known that it would come down to this. After all, he had destroyed his window completely and might have interfered with an ongoing battle, though he suspected that one was more serious than the other. Still, he wasn't afraid of the Fatass, not in the way one should fear someone who your life in his hands. He stood there, silent, meeting the eyes of his tormentor without a flecking gaze.

It had been a long time since their era of childish mocking and fights, but the animosity Kyle felt against him had only grown in strength. The last years of undeniable power had been good to him, though Fatass wasn't really that accurate anymore. Oh, he was still big and a lot of it was fat, but years of carrying his own weight had given him muscles too. He looked like an important man, tall, strong and with his hair nicely yet simply kept. It wasn't hard to see why he had captured the trust of so many.

Since he was a child, he had been able to manipulate people into doing what he wanted them to do, sometimes with schemes ridiculously stupid and simple . Yet every now and then he had showed an understanding of the human mind that had left Kyle scared shitless. The incident with Scott Tenorman had been of them–the look of pure evil and the way he had managed to make even Kyle himself follow his plans, while trying to do the exact opposite. From that, many of South Park's citizens had been surprisingly compliant when it came to deal with the child that was pretty much the reincarnation of Satan.

These days that look was rare, he had learned to school his facial features extremely well, making it hard to know what he was after with a simple look at his face. When he now stood before him, his whole face was completely blank; nose, mouth, jaw, forehead; every muscle was completely relaxed. Well, that was not the complete truth. There was something in his eyes; something dark swirling in them, but he had no idea of what it was.

For a long while, all they did was to stare at each other, neither willing to make the first move. Kyle didn't know what was going on in the mind of the other man, and it would be stupid to take any unnecessary risks by saying the wrong thing. The tense silence was finally broken as the fat man gave in.

"If you tell me that it wasn't you, I'll listen."

Kyle, who had thought that the Fatass was incapable of surprising him anymore, came very close to gawking. The tone had been like his face, lacking any real emotion aside from what sounded like boredom, but he concluded that it was clearly faked. He remained silent, not quite sure what the other wanted from him or even if he heard correctly.

"It's not impossible that the window was damaged from the outside," Fatass continued while sternly holding Kyle's gaze.

"What the hell are you talking about? The shards of the glass are not in the room, which would mean that the force came from this side, not to mention the plastic. Is there _anything_ possibly they could have to do _that_?"

Kyle knew that it might not have been the brightest thing ever to say, but the words escaped before his mind had a chance of thinking it through. Besides, he was actually proud of what he had accomplished, even if it most likely hadn't made any difference for the others, it had been a personal victory to finally take down that damnable window. He didn't want anyone to think of the only real thing he done for years to have been the actions of someone else, even if that anyone was Fatass. His words were not appreciated.

"For fuck's sake, I'm offering you a chance of excusing yourself, Broflovski!"

The voice had lost its disinterested note and sounded more like the voice he had grown accustomed to, snappish and annoyed, occasionally with a mocking addition to the mix. But Kyle didn't really focus on the voice, but rather on the words. He eyed his captor with disbelieving eyes.

"You'd...excuse me? Why would you do that?"

The tub of lard had the nerve to look away from him and snort, as if trying to explain something ridiculously simple to a complete R-tard.

"That's not something you should worry about; let the big boys handle it."

He said it with a slight turning of the corner of his mouth. Kyle hated that smirk to the point where he felt his fist clench and twitch. He despised feeling stupid and when people talked above his head as if he wouldn't understand. He hated not knowing about matters that were so important to him that they made his stomach ache when he tried to sleep.

But more than that, he hated all of those things combined and multiplied with a billion, he hated the man that stood before him. The man that made him feel all those things, without the slightest twinge of remorse in his body. He had robbed him of so much that Kyle could no longer pity him. Everything he had kept inside suddenly broke loose in a fury he hadn't known he had missed.

All teeth, fists and claws he went loose, feeling a deep-rooted pleasure at the shocked and fearful expression on the man's face. Sounds he had never heard a human make came from somewhere deep inside his body, urging him to do as much damage as he could as he knew that he didn't have much time. Very true as he was shoved off and down to the floor as soon as his victim, although that word was wrong in every way, came to his senses. God, Kyle missed the times back in High School when he'd actually still been able to beat up the overweight boy.

A satisfied smile crept up and settled on his face when he saw the three gashes on the other's shin, along with his disordered state. The cuts were not very deep, his nails were but human and broken since the day before, yet a small stream of blood trickled down the chin, along the neck and down under the uniform, hopefully staining the shirt underneath red. A small amount of the sanguine liquid had gotten on Kyle's own fingers and slowly made its way down them, causing a pleasured shiver to travel down his spine.

The fat man brought his fingertips to his cheek before looking at them, rubbing the substance between his fingers. Then he smiled and looked down at Kyle, eyes dark enough to make the blood in his veins turn to ice.

"Clearly, Jews are less human than I thought, though I would appreciate it if you didn't do it again, unless you want the gesture to be returned."

No, Kyle thought, he had it wrong. Jews were humans just like everyone else. What made someone human was more than genes and DNA, more than ancestors, cultures and beliefs. Humans were defined by their ability to care for one and another, not only for friends and family but also for strangers and for humanity in general. A man who without empathy, without a sense of right and wrong, unable to take others into consideration and without the ability to love was less human than a rock.

His disagreement with the man's words must have shown on his face as Fatass's face darkened and he scowled.

"Very well. You are to endure complete isolation for ten days. No food, laundry or hot water. As usual, the tap in the bathroom will provide you with fresh water, the shower won't. Should anything happen, deal with it on your own. I'll be away for a few days and Billy is to stay away. In short, no one will hear you scream."

He finished with a smirk, as if he sincerely hoped to come back and find Kyle crushed underneath a bookcase. Most likely, he would send Billy to clean up the mess, he usually did as one of Billy's primary tasks seemed to be the basic care of Kyle and his quarters, delivering food and various toilet articles.

The man still standing threw him a last glance before turning to unlock the door, a door that led to his own bedroom. Kyle had caught glimpses of it hundreds of times and he still found it disturbing that their bedrooms were connected, even if Kyle's own was the only room that wasn't the bathroom or the closet, which might actually be even creepier.

He let out a sigh that seemed to deflate not only his body but also his spirit. With tired eyes he looked up against the Fatass, who had turned his head at the loud exhalation.

"Why are you even doing this, keeping me alive? Surely, I must be of more trouble than I'm worth, God knows I try. Still, you come here every fucking day. We trade insults and then you leave. What could I possibly have or do that makes you keep me here?"

It wasn't a question he hadn't ever asked before; in fact it was quite usual. Alas, it was never answered. It was either ignored or the reply was just stupid mocking. The uniformed man tapped his shin, a parody of hard thinking.

"I'm not quite sure. I'm thinking of using your limbs as weapons sometimes when I face the bastards that are, quite pathetically I might add, trying to take me down. Like the scene in _Lord of the Rings_, can you imagine McCormick's face as your head makes contact with his own? Or even better, Marsh's, if the faggot's still alive that is. He would have a breakdown right there, long enough for me to finally wipe his stupid face of the Earth."

"Get out," Kyle said, his voice small and soft but his eyes were once again aflame. "Now."

"Yeah, yeah, get the sand out of your vagina."

The Fatass finally unlocked the door and stepped out of the rooms with that hateful smirk back on his face. Kyle wanted to scream. Just before closing the door, the fat man stopped as if just realising something, then turned to face Kyle with a genuine smile.

"You know what; it'd quite the bitch if March wouldn't care at all. I mean, it's been six years after all, I'd be surprised if he hasn't gotten together with someone else by now. I think he works quite closely with the Hippie. Wouldn't it be funny if he didn't even recognise your face?"

"GET OUT!"

The door closed with a click, and he could hear an amused bark from the other side.

Kyle felt like screaming, but he refused to give the Fatass the pleasure of knowing that he had successfully pushed his buttons. Instead, he brought his clean hand to his mouth and bit down, hard enough to draw blood, and tried to focus on the taste of copper in his mouth. He knew that he should wish that those out there in the real world would have forgotten about him, accepted his demise and moved on.

Yet that was not how his heart felt about the matter. He wanted them to be sad if they came across his dead body, even if it sounded horrible. It was one of the darker sides of humanity, the desperate need to be remembered and acknowledged. Although Fatass obviously disagreed, Kyle was nothing more than a human, with all the ups and downs that came with it.

He could accept that most of his friends rarely thought about him, they needed to keep their thoughts on the present and not on the past and besides, it wasn't as if they didn't have friends and family that they held dearer than they had him. No, those that would hurt the most, apart from his family, would be Kenny and Stan. It was stupid and it was selfish, he knew that, but he wanted them to think about him as much as he did about them, even if it would hurt. Especially Stan.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder is a popular saying, or at least it used to be. Kyle had always thought of it as nonsense, how could you love someone more if you never see them? But he had been proven wrong. Small things that he had taken for granted now meant the world in his memories. Things like feeling a hot, soft breath on your neck in the middle of the night or an accidental bump shoulder against shoulder when you felt sad or insecure were things that he would now kill for, provided that Stan was the one who did them.

But he was dead and probably long forgotten. And that was okay. It was okay if Stan had found someone else, someone who held his hand though both pretended that they didn't actually want to, who brushed that annoying lock of hair, the one that always fell into his eyes, away. Stan needed someone that he could talk to when everything felt hopeless, and then hold close to him the rest of the night.

That was probably not him anymore, and that was all right. It was okay, he told himself, pretending that he didn't feel the water that ran down his cheeks, some merging with the blood on his hand and dripping down, giving the white rug pink stains.

* * *

Hope you guys've had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!


	4. Encountering Unexpected Material

A/N: Fourth chapter! Keep eyes and ears open, people!

Animegrl421, Lonely Jew and thequillofdestiny: Thank you all, it means a lot to me, really! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter too.

A great Thank You to the lovely lady who betaed this for me, Elbereth Gilthoniel! She stopped me from writing some pretty confusing shit.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park. The lucky bastards who do are named Matt and Trey.

* * *

Chapter IV – Encountering Unexpected Material

_Eight years earlier_

_His hair flapped in the wind, not unlike the flag behind him, as he stood before the huge crowd. Millions of people watched, if not standing below him in the streets, then sitting glued to the television, prepared to take in his every word. He was aware of it; he loved it. With a tired sigh he lowered his head, an action of submission that the crowd did not expect, before looking up and scanning the mass. Not a sound was heard._

"_My fellow Americans, this is a dark day for us all."_

_The crowd started murmuring, and he was forced to look down for a second in order to keep a smile away from his face._

"_I cannot put to words how betrayed I am, how we all must be. We put our faith into the hands of a man, a man I supported with my whole being, yet that faith was kicked, mangled and spit upon."_

_His hands clenched around the surface on the podium, adding a tense pause. "At 3:24 am this morning, Jonathan Jefferson was arrested for selling out his own country, this very nation. Information about his arrest has reached the media, but the reason behind it has not, and so I will enlighten you."_

_The feeling of having a whole country hanging on to his every word was enough to make him hard right there on stage; he thanked the lord for the podium that covered him up. _

"_Our President, yours and mine, took the money that you, our honest, decent tax-payers have given to the state to make our magnificent nation even better. Not only did it fall into his own wallet, but also into the hands of the Russian military. This might come as a shock to you all, but I feel that you have the right to know. The Russians have, for several years now, worked on producing weapons of mass destruction; the only thing standing between them and success being their lack of financial support. But that is no longer the case."_

_With a sudden raise of his head he stared out at the men and women gathered, his whole posture__reeking of anger and humiliation. The startled gasps told him that they had bought it_

"_As of today, the Russians have their weapons, weapons that are considered too amoral to ever be used in battle or war. And they are intending to use them against us, the people that paid for them."_

_His stance weakened, and he stood humbled on the stage, letting the words sink in, before resuming his speech, voice softer and gentler._

"_My fellow Americans, it is with great sadness I stand here before you today. But I hope that you will give me a chance of pulling us through this. It was the man I supported that put us in this situation. I feel that it is no less than my obligation to make sure that we get through this. Give me a chance, and I will personally make sure that neither the Russians nor any other country will ever look down on us again. Give me a chance, and I will fight for you!"_

_The last sentence was more of a roar than actual speaking, though that was necessary as the crowd yelled, cried and screamed out their support and blessings._

_Many miles away, once again gathered in the Black's cellar, were the teens of South Park. Not unlike they had been a year earlier, they were silent. This time though, it was more of a shocked silence then a fearful one. Oh, they would fear, but at that very moment they had troubling grasping the fact that Eric Cartman had just given himself the status of the President, without the interference of anyone. True, they hadn't done anything themselves, but they were too far away to make a difference._

"_He can't really do that."_

_Everyone's eyes turned to Wendy, who seemed a little surprised to hear herself speaking._

"_It goes against just about every law that makes this country."_

"_As if rules have ever stopped him," Token argued, ending his sentence with a snort. _

"_Don't you think we might be taking this a bit too serious, fellahs?"_

_Who other than Butters, nervously clanking his knuckles together as he glanced up from underneath his blonde fringe?_

"_You can't honestly believe that, do you Butters?"_

_Kenny McCormick, quite possibly the only one who did not look like he wanted to kick Butters' ass._

"_Well, no, but we can still hope," said Butters in a small voice._

_Even he, the one to never give up hope, was subdued. _

Present time, 2030

It was quiet. Silence could drive you mad. Kyle was sure of it. The part of the building he resided in was very quiet when Fatass was away, especially at night. When he had been a child, Kyle had constantly been surrounded by noise and commotion, more so than he had wished. That didn't change the fact that he had grown accustomed to it; a complete silence made him nervous.

It had been five days since he had been left on his own with only himself as company and entertainment. The realisation that he was indeed a quite boring person came far too quickly. In little to no time, it had resulted in him just wandering back and forth whenever it was too dark to read, which was fairly often now that the window in his room was his only source of light

His stomach grumbled in an unpleasant way as he made his way toward the window, drawn like a moth to flame. Days had passed since he had last eaten and while he could still function, he was tired.

Heaving himself up, he settled against the metal bars in the window. Shortly after Fatass's departure, he had gone loose on the window, tearing away the plastic completely and cleaning the area of the shards of glass that had still lingered on the floor, glittering like small diamonds. Projection was the Freudian term for it; transferring your feelings for one object to another, which meant that the window had paid for the feelings Fatass brought on.

With a deep breath, he tried to forget where and who he was, along with the empty hollowness in his stomach and the dull aching in his head. No one liked being alone for too long, and Kyle wasn't an exception. In all honesty, he was far more dependent on other people than he would have preferred, something both he and Fatass were aware of. He blamed also that trait on his family, especially his mother and her mollycoddling.

The stars twinkled outside, far too many to even try to count, even though he could only see a small fraction of the sky. With a weak smile he watched them; they were just as much symbols as the window. Sometimes they seemed so close and shone so vibrant, yet they far so very far away, and the idea of catching one of them was laughable; it was only something small children dreamt of, or those who had gone with Timon's theory after watching _The Lion King_.

With a shaking of his head, he tried to clear all the confusing thoughts from his mind. That was what happened when he was left with only his own mind as company. His thoughts started to take strange roads and would make his thinking intense enough to make him fall from the window without even realising. Until he hit the floor, that is.

Absolutely exhausted, he pressed up against the bars, pretending that they somehow had transformed into a shoulder; soft, warm and comforting. By the time he felt himself slipping back into sleep, he almost had himself convinced.

* * *

The echoing sound of feet meeting floor awoke Kyle. After rubbing his eyes, slightly groggy, he turned his eyes toward the door, the direction the sound came from.

After a moment of intense staring, he began to consider the possibility that his brain had finally had enough of the princess deal and was now going insane, but then he heard it again. It didn't seem to come from the bedroom on the other side, but it was very close.

Perhaps one of Fatass's soldiers had finally had enough and decided that he would take down his captain before he went down himself. Or perhaps they had heard the news of his departure and decided to snoop around in Fatass's private quarters.

Suddenly, he heard the very familiar sound of a door opening. As it wasn't his own, he assumed that it was the one connecting Fatass's bedroom to the rest of the building. He heard someone wander about in there; but the steps were slow and careful, as if whoever was in there was afraid of being discovered. Rightly so, Kyle thought; he wouldn't be surprised if anyone who was trespassing would be executed on the spot. If not, he might get a roommate, added another, more sarcastic, part of his brain.

He couldn't deny that he was a bit curious. The only people he had met during the last years were Billy and Fatass, and the only one he had spoken to was the very same tub of lard that kept him locked up. Careful not to make any noise, he slipped down from the window, and then slowly moved forward with his eyes set on the door. Sadly, he had managed to forget about the chest by the foot of the bed and walked straight into it. The sound was barely enough to hear, but it was enough to make the person in the other room halt in their actions.

Minutes ticked by, both of them now aware of each other. Kyle let out a relieved breath when he heard that the other moved around in the room again. They must have come to the conclusion that it was only their imagination.

His assumption proved wrong as he threw himself down to the floor as a gunshot to the lock made the door fly open. When he looked up he could barely see the person in the doorway. The light was just enough that he could make out the contours of a man; a man that held a gun pointed right at him. He swallowed deeply; he knew that he was very visible. He had fallen to his knees right below the window, pretty much drenched in moonlight.

"Gah! Hands on your back, now!" The person said with a voice that somehow was very high-pitched and very quiet at the same time.

Kyle just stared dumbly. The voice was fairly familiar, yet it was the shriek that made reality dawn on him.

"Tweek?"

The man, apparently Tweek, was startled to the point where he almost dropped his gun, which he had held remarkably steady for being who he was, Kyle noticed absentmindedly. He regained control fairly quickly though and stepped forward until the moonlight was strong enough to reveal just about every of his features.

"How do you know my-...Kyle?"

For several moments, they just stared at each other, none of them entirely convinced that the other truly was there. The last time he had seen Tweek, he had barely entered his twenties, almost capable of buttoning his own shirt without too many mishaps, though he had still been as paranoid and twitchy as he had been as a child.

Those little quirks were now absent. Hair, dyed silver by the moon, once almost as curly and out of control as his own had been cut at some point, only sparing an inch or so. It added to the military air he emitted, together with the all green outfit and the heavy boots, laden with steel to make a forceful impact when needed. With his gaze set on the footwear, Kyle felt an absurd sting of longing when he thought of the boots he used to wear, although he had hated them at the time. Of course, that might be because he hadn't worn shoes in years. One did not need shoes if one never stepped outside, or so Fatass seemed to think.

Tweek seemed to be in a state similar to his own, jaw practically hitting the floor, but the gun was still safe in his hands. Kyle felt a wave of dread creeping over him when he saw the hands clutch the thing tighter. There was a very good chance that Tweek's way of handling weapons had improved a great deal, yet the mental image of a little boy with constant spasms made him feel rather unsafe. Not to mention that a gun was indeed a lethal weapon, even if he had trusted the owner with his life, he still would have been uncomfortable.

Lying on the floor did nothing but strengthen the feeling of helplessness. He dearly wished to straighten up. After coming to the conclusion that Tweek probably wouldn't mind if he stood up, Kyle slowly raised his head and neck, while still keeping his eyes locked with those belonging to his old friend and classmate. It soon became obvious that he had made a miscalculation when it came to the blonde man, causing him to shrink back against the floor as the mud green eyes narrowed and the hands adjusted their grip. A sharp cracking noise erupted from the gun together with a small bullet. Tweek's nervousness had caused him to accidently pull the trigger, but due to his twitching hands it had jerked when firing. It missed Kyle completely and instead nailed the wall behind him.

The blood pounded between his temples; it would have been deafening had his attention not been directed elsewhere. A part of his brain had a hard time grasping that not only was he in position with a potentially deadly outcome, but it was also a former friend who put him in it. Another found the dark, gaping opening pointed at him enough reason to stay frozen to the ground.

"You're dead."

The voice Tweek spoke in was unlike his earlier, it was harsher and less loud, as if had suddenly grown far more solemn. When a few moments had passed, Kyle realised that it wasn't a promise of death. It was a statement that Kyle, according to what Tweek had been informed of, was supposed to be dead. Seemed like Fatass hadn't lied about that part.

"No. I'm not."

It might not have been the most informative answer, but it was true and the first thing that burst out of his mouth. Usually, when you are told of your own death, you protest. The fact that you are indeed present and able to disagree pretty much proves your point. Tweek, on the other hand, was still not convinced and held his gun steady. He just opened his mouth to voice his thoughts when they suddenly heard a sound, coming from right behind him.

Tweek spun on his heel, ready to shoot at sight, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. A shortish but robust man squeezed his shoulder, making the blond relax slightly and lower his weapon.

"What are you up to? I tried to reach you on the intercom, but you didn't answer."

Kyle recognized that voice too. It had a very special tone, almost as if the owner had a bit of a cold and had trouble breathing through his nose. Although, one had to admit that the voice of Clyde Donovan was considerably less nasal than it had been when they where boys.

Tweek made a gesture that made little sense, though he made it in Kyle's direction. With a small frown, Clyde's eyes left Tweek's and looked into the room, growing wide when they landed on Kyle's fallen form.

"Holy shit! Is that supposed to be Kyle?" Clyde asked out loud.

Rather stupid as they probably didn't want to be discovered; Kyle thought. Sure, these hallways were pretty much abandoned, but it didn't hurt to be careful. Taking the opportunity now that the gun was finally away from him, Kyle stood up, carefully. After surviving this long in the same building as Fatass, being killed by one of his own would damage more than his pride.

"Thanks for the formulation, but yes, I'm Kyle."

The two others exchanged looks of doubt, before turning back to him, their weapons raised once again.

"Now, I happen to know that Kyle Broflovski is dead; he died right before my eyes. Tell us where Cartman is, and I might not find out if your brains look the same way his did."

The words were enough to make Kyle take a step back. They both watched him with disgust, burning hatred almost visible in their irises. Many times, Kyle had imagined that his friends would find him, that he would finally be free from his personal hell, silly and stupid as it might have been. Never had he considered the option that they wouldn't believe him when they found him. He didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but being met with such animosity hurt, even if it wasn't directed toward him, per se.

"If I'm not me, then who would I be?" Kyle almost managed to keep his annoyance out of his voice, no point in upsetting them further.

"Knowing Cartman, anything. A robot or a clone, maybe even a hooker willing to go through a number of plastic surgeries to satisfy his owner. Or _her_ owner, for that matter." Clyde bit back.

Kyle was forced to bite his tongue to hold back his own version of his mother's infamous "Whatwhat_what_ ?!" at the comment. Instantly, he remembered that he'd always thought that Clyde was an asshole.

"For your information, I would _never_ sleep with Fatass. I'd rather die!"

Kyle had temporarily forgotten the fact that they should try to be quiet and nearly screamed his opinion of Clyde's earlier words straight into the face of the startled rebel.

If Clyde would have thought of anything to say to the angry man, he soon forgot about them as his chest pocket began to vibrate heavily. With a quick glance at Kyle, he fished up something that looked a bit like a powder container, though he strongly suspected that it had another use, especially as Clyde flipped it open and it spoke to him.

"_Cadillac, you there? This is Kia, any sign of Monstertruck?" _

The voice was somewhat raspy, but that was to be assumed. After all, it might be hard to get hold of top-notch equipment as a secret organisation rising against a pretentious Fatso.

"Cadillac here, so is Tata. No sign of Monstertruck as of yet, but we found something else." Clyde told the device, his gaze locked with Kyle's.

"_Talk to me, Cadillac."_

"I think we might have encountered Broflovski."

Clyde seemed somewhat tentative as he said it, as if he had a hard time admitting something to the other person that he had denied heatedly when he had argued with Kyle himself. Perhaps the hard reminder of Sheila Broflovski had been enough to convince him.

"_...did you mention Infiniti? We left him at the base!"_

"Not that Broflovski. _Kyle_ Broflovski."

"_Kyle Broflovski?! Are you sure?"_

"No."

"_...put him on the line. If I say shoot, then do as I tell you."_

After eyeing the man who claimed to be their long lost friend, Clyde reluctantly handed over his precious communicator. Kyle took it, trying not to think about the last sentence, and brought it closer.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"_Kyle, is that you? This is Kenny."_

Kyle almost dropped the thing. Even after seeing Kenny less than a week earlier, it was a chock to hear his voice. He felt stupid for not recognising it at once; even if it sounded completely different it warmed his heart when he heard it, making him aware that the beating organ had indeed been frozen. He hadn't moved an inch, yet he suddenly felt at home.

"Hi, Kenny. It's me."

His own voice was almost as raspy as the one escaping the communicator. With a series of blinking he tried to keep his eyes from suddenly trying to remove some dirt that apparently had gotten stuck in his eyes.

"_Shit. Okay, Kyle, I want you to give me the code to unlock my first cell-phone and tell me why I chose it."_

"Eight-zero-zero-eight, because you're a perverted bastard."

Something between a laugh and a sob escaped him, but he pretended that it'd never happened.

"You've also used five-three-six-nine, five-nine-five-three and seven-eight-two-six. That's you, me and Stan."*

"_...I also used three-seven-four-two.**" _Kenny spoke softly, not to point out that he had forgotten something, more to remind himself.

Kyle closed his eyes and sighed. "That was a long time ago."

"_Yeah, a very long time ago. Kyle, I'm sorry but could you put Cadillac back on the phone?"_

Forgetting that the thing didn't have a camera, Kyle nodded before handing the communicator back to Clyde, remembering what he had been called. In his numbed state he barely noticed that Clyde looked at him somewhat less weary.

"Cadillac here."

"_Good. Listen carefully; I want you to get him out of here as soon as possible. Though I hate to say this, there's still a chance that this is a trap or a way for Cartman to fuck with us, so I want you to blindfold him when you leave. Get to the Spot. We'll meet up there. Keep an eye open though, it won't be pretty if you run into Monstertr-."_

"If it's Fatass you're talking about, then he's not here. He left a few days ago—hasn't gotten back yet," Kyle interrupted, surprised that he managed to keep up with the conversation with all the thoughts flying around in his head. After six years he was finally, _finally_ going to leave his golden cage. It wasn't a time to smile, and don't count your chickens before they hatched and all that kind of crap but damn it, he was leaving!

The two others in the roomed looked less happy. In fact, they were quite distressed.

"He left? When did he-" Clyde shook his head and brought the communicator closer to his mouth. "Bad news Kia, Mon-"

"_I heard you. That fucking asshole is ruining our plans even when he's not even trying. " _A sigh was heard._ "Just get out of there as safely as you can. I'll tell the others. Our fat bird escaped his cage; let's do his bird the same favour. It's good to have you back, Kyle."_

"It's good being back, Kia."

A bark of laughter came from the communicator before Clyde flipped it closed. With a quirked eyebrow at his friend and newly made companion, he made for the door.

"What are you waiting for? Let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

Kyle didn't look back, didn't take a last glimpse at the room. It meant nothing to him; it was but a symbol of his isolation and captivity. There was nothing in there he wanted to keep, no books or clothes; the only materialistic thing he wanted hadn't left his finger for years. He turned his back on the rooms that had stolen such a large part of his life with giddiness in his step and a smile on his face. He felt hope.

* * *

*8008=Boob, 5369=Keny, 5953=Kyle, 7826=Stan

**3742=Eric

There should be a few turns and twists that you didn't really expect in there. Well, one at least.

A few last words for those of you who expect nothing from here; "all that glitters is not gold."

Hope you had fun reading!


	5. Counting the Bricks

Sorry for the long wait people!

thequillofdestiny: Your reviews always make me smile! Thanks! ( and I'm having a great time guessing on the censured words ;P)!

Animegrl421: Thank you! Don't worry, it's a good motivation to know that you have people waiting.

dreams . of . destiny: You're quite right, it's from Raisins. The Odyssey huh? Sure beats Rapunzel, much more drama and action! :D Thanks for reading!

Lonely Jew: LJ (that's your new nickname and I'm sticking to it), my dear girl! No worries, you are forgiven; hope you'll show me the same understanding for being a day late with this. Thank you for sticking to the story, and remember; patience is a virtue.

Thanks to my dear Beta, Elbereth Gilthoniel, for reading this through and helping me where it was needed!

* * *

Chapter V – Counting the Bricks

_Seven years earlier._

_"China."_

_Kyle Broflovski almost fell out of his chair when he was startled awake by his friend. Once again, he had managed to fall asleep by his table, papers strewn out in front of him. Some were stained with coffee, and if one looked closer, one would find that the note he had slept on had a small patch of drool gathered on it. Wendy smiled as she caught sight of the post-it that was glued to her friend's cheek, seemingly without his knowing._

_"...come again?" _

_"China," Wendy repeated, a bit slower, "That's where he'll go next. Token managed to hack into one of their minor systems, but he was thrown out almost immediately. That was all the data he could get his hands on, along with a few coded files; Bebe and Anne are trying to crack them. But yeah, China. Possibly Japan too while he's in the area."_

_"That fat fuck doesn't like to waste time," Kyle said with a sigh and bumped his forehead against the surface of the table, "He'll fly over Africa."_

_"Why?" _

_"That's what he does. Right now he's not afraid of anyone, so there is no need for him to hide. In his screwed up mind, he's invincible, and can easily step on those beneath him. And Africa is safe; their air force is nonexistent. He wants to scare them, to show off. To tell them that they're next and that there is nothing they can do about it. He's playing with them; he's playing with us, the sadistic son-of-a-bitch!" Kyle growled, glaring at the scrabbled words pressed against his face._

_Wendy shouldn't be surprised, she really shouldn't. It wasn't unusual that Kyle, sometimes even Kenny or Stan, blurted out something about the ways in which Cartman was thinking. They had gotten used to it and often used it in their planning. Yet it was strange just how well the two enemies could see through each other, finding patterns in what seemed like nonsense to others._

_"What do you think that we should do?"_

_"I don't have a fucking clue, Wendy," Kyle said in a small voice, very much unlike the fierce tone he had used earlier. "It feels as if no matter what we do, he's always ten steps ahead. Even if we actually find out what he's doing for once, there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it. We're desperately fumbling in the dark here, we're not going anywhere!"_

_Barely registering her own movement, Wendy was suddenly behind the disheartened man. Her arms sneaked around Kyle's torso as she lowered her chin to settle on a shoulder. A very tense shoulder, she realised as the muscle started to relax under the warmth radiating from her skin. Kyle didn't seem to mind, simply appreciating the feeling of human contact. _

_The documents on the table caught Wendy's attention. There were maps, certain areas circled or otherwise marked, deciphered messages, and various other kinds of texts and drafts. Her gaze wandered from paper to paper until she reached one that Kyle's right hand partly covered. Startled, her eyes widened, soon followed by her mouth._

_"He finally asked you, didn't he?"_

_Her smile only grew as Kyle's eyes flew open, while his hand quickly darted down to take cover under the table. Surprised, he turned to Wendy._

_"He told you?"_

_His tone was careful, stepping on tiptoes to avoid the glass. She knew that he had her previous relationship with his boyfriend on his mind—that he didn't want to hurt her feelings. On the inside, she snorted. Honestly, that had ended years ago!_

_"Mhmm, he's been stalling though, the stupid bastard. It's not as if you'd say no, I mean sure, you might kick him in the balls for being a romantic pussy, but you'd still say yes." She smiled at the indignant face. "But aren't you wearing it on the wrong hand?"_

_"No," he said with a dry laugh, "I asked him about it when he put it on – yes, I let him put it on—shut up!" He snapped when Wendy's smile had turned into a smirk at his words. "What was I supposed to do? He looked as if he was about to throw up! Anyhow, I asked him about it. Turns out, it's a Jewish custom. Even I didn't know about that."_

_"That's Stan for you though."_

_"Yeah, that's Stan." _

_Kyle's eyes softened as his gaze lingered on his hand. Wendy could practically see the warmth spreading throughout his body as his thoughts drifted away from her. Kyle was usually somewhat closeted when it came to his feelings; his will not to open up to outsiders caused the feelings to gather and build up. At times, the dam burst, and he let them out in a fit of rage and anger. But at other times, when he let his defences fall, the power of his good heart shone through._

- Present time, 2030.

It was the first time he had ever been in Fatass' bedroom. He had seen it for a few seconds every time the door opened, but he had never been able to build up an image of it based on so little. Now that he was there, he was fascinated by the normalcy of the room. It didn't look evil or dark; it was big and airy. The furniture was light and simple. To think that it was the home of a monster was hard to grasp.

An impatient noise from Clyde told him that they didn't have the time to stop and take in their surroundings; they were in unknown territory belonging to the enemy, and had to get out of there as quickly as possible. In all honesty, the sense of time had been lost on Kyle somewhere during the last years. Time was practically all he'd had.

He quickened his step, much to the relief of his companions. Their movements were silent, moving through the hallways as if they were weightless, always coming to a halt when about to turn a corner, careful not to run into any wayward guards. Clearly, the time they had spent at war had left its traces.

That they managed to get out without being discovered was nothing short of a miracle. So many hallways, so many guards; there were so many things that could have gone wrong. Yet, they somehow made it to the kitchens, then through a vent that started in a huge refrigerator and ended right outside the building. The two rebels made sure not to leave any traces of their presence behind, aside from the obvious lack of Kyle. There was no point in giving away too much information. If they were lucky enough, they might be able to use the same route at another time, a time when Fatass actually was there.

Kyle felt numb as they made their way out of the place that had been his prison for so many years. It wasn't until he finally stood underneath the starlit sky, his naked feet buried in the cold, damp grass under him, that he really understood that he was now free. The building stood before him, looking innocent in the dark night. It was a mansion, not a castle. A strange, unfamiliar feeling made his insides rumble, forcing something up his throat. When he opened his mouth to let the odd sensation free, prepared to throw up, all that came out was a sound. A fit of loud, clear laughter suddenly took control over his muscles and caused his to fall to his knees, unable to breathe.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Clyde yelled in a, strangely enough, whisper. "They can still see us from here. Get your ass up and going!"

A strong hand clutched his arm and dragged him up while another, slightly smaller and somewhat shaking, was pressed against his mouth to keep his giggles in.

"Please, Kyle, just shut the fuck up,-" Tweek moaned, eyes darting franticly between the building they had just left and Kyle.

Kyle tried to swallow down the absurd need to laugh and regained control of his limbs. He didn't really know why he had started laughing in the first place.

"Listen, I think you heard what Kia said. If you wanna come with us, you'll have to wear this," Clyde pulled something that looked like an old, but thankfully clean, roll of bandage out of a pocket on his shirt. "If you don't feel like it, well, I guess we'll have no other choice but to knock you out. Kia would have our balls if we left someone who might be his old friend in enemy territory."

Kyle, who had eyed the piece of cloth with poorly disguised repulsion, deemed the option of being conscious while heading on to a new place better than doing the same trip out cold. The last time he had passed out, he had woken up in the room he had just left; he had no intention of ever repeating the occurrence. Reluctantly, he allowed Tweek to his left take the roll and carefully slip it around his skull.

His vision disappeared as Tweek wrapped the cloth around his eyes. Kyle noticed that it sat rather loosely on his face, and probably wasn't as tight as it should have been. It made him smile, the way some things never changed, even in the darkest of times. Then he remembered the sight of the blonde man hovering above him, a gun directed at his head and a twitching finger of the trigger. The smile quickly disappeared.

The two rebels took Kyle by the arms, guiding him forward with firm hands. As he could no longer see, he had no other choice but to put his trust in the hands of the men who had saved him. Being blinded was not something he enjoyed in the least, especially while being on the move. Slippery roots twisted around his naked feet as they ran, trying to make him slip and fall. That, along with the earthy smell of dirt, told him that they had reached the woods he could see from his window.

They kept going for hours, though they were forced to slow down the pace soon after their departure. Kyle hadn't eaten for almost a week, and his body had started to protest heavily. Had it not been for the arms that supported him, he wouldn't have had the strength to move forward.

"You okay?"

He recognised the voice as Clyde's, now a little softer than it had been earlier. Presumably, not needing to fear having a small army licking at their heels had made him calmer. Kyle gave a curt nod and turned his head in the direction the voice had come from.

"Yeah, I'm just tired. How much further do we have to go?"

He didn't mention the gaping void in his stomach or the pain it caused him; it was embarrassing enough to be half-dragged along as a blind man. But no matter how he felt about the subject, it didn't change the fact that his legs were about to give out.

"Not far, I can see the others from here." There was a short pause."Seriously, man, are you okay? I can feel your body shaking."

"I'm fine," he snapped irritably, trying to glare at the offending man through the cloth over his eyes.

He just wanted their little march to end so that he could find somewhere to sit down and preferably to take a nap as well.

"No need to be a dick about it," Clyde muttered to his left.

"Oy, people," Clyde barked, not to Kyle this time but in another direction." Help me out here. This guy here can barely stand up! Get some water or something."

Kyle's ears perked. Were they really that close? Suddenly he heard a number of feet hurrying over, all interested in the strange redheaded man that was hauled by their comrades.

"Who's that?"

"Holy shit, did someone get hurt?!"

"Why the hell did you take a soldier here?!"

"That's not a soldier dumbass. Look at his clothes. It's a civilian."

There were too many voices, familiar and new ones. Without faces to match them, he felt his head start throbbing. Trying to relieve himself of the bandage, he found that he no longer had the energy to stand, much less raise his hand. Slowly, he started sinking to his knees, the incessant rumble around him only increasing.

"Why don't you all just shut the fuck up?!"

At once, the people that had gathered around him fell silent. He heard them part way for someone, heard that someone walk up to him, then stood silent, observing him. An intense gaze stared down at him; he could feel it even with his eyes covered. A hand found its way to his hair, stroking carefully from his hairline down to where an old hair tie held it back. He had been kept away from sharp objects, resulting in his hair growing longer than he would have desired.

"If you lied to me, I'm going to make sure that you are going to wish that you never were born. Believe me, I can. I've been to Hell often enough to pick up a thing or two."

Despite the hardness and venom in the voice, Kyle felt his heart flutter. As he looked up, the hand took a hold of the blindfold and gently removed it; quite in contrast to his harsh words. Blinking a few times, Kyle let his eyes get used to the idea of seeing again. The man was still very blurry, but he didn't need the man's features to identify him. The voice was more than enough, especially considering that he had spoken to him only hours ago. A smile found its way to his face, somehow convincing his tired muscles to work.

Before he knew it, Kyle was being crushed against a strong chest, his nose pressed tightly against it. Arms had stolen him from the hold of Tweek and Clyde and were now squeezing him so tight that it cut off his air supply.

"Kenny, I can't breathe!"

"Sorry, dude," Kenny whispered, yet he still held on just as hard, "I thought you were dead."

"I wasn't. I'm still not."

Kyle sighed, tired yet oddly satisfied. The body which held him tight belonged to someone he loved and would trust with his life; someone he had worried about constantly for six years. He had seen him, heard him, but to have Kenny as close as he was, soothed not only his heart but also his body. His body slumped forward as he closed his eyes sand simply leaned on the blond man, trusting him to catch him should he fall.

While being fiercely hugged by a long lost friend, under the shocked eyes of the members of La Resistance, Kyle fell asleep.

Kenny's grip tightened around the sleeping body, not willing to let go after being apart for so many years.

* * *

A low rumble worked its way into his dreams, barely noticeable at first, but it grew stronger with time. Absentmindedly, Kyle recognized the sound, and also recognized that the surface he sat upon shook slightly. But what caught his attention wasn't the noise or the vibrations; it was the arm around his middle and the shoulder that was pressed up against his own.

"Waking up, I see. Good, you really should eat something. We've been hearing complaints from your intestines for the past hours, but we didn't have the heart to wake you up."

His eyes flew up with a start. As he looked into sparkling eyes of baby blue, belonging to none other than Kenny McCormack, the events of the day crashed down on him.

"Fuck, I can't believe it's actually you!"

Kyle ignored his abused insides and threw his arms around his friend, this time with more energy and enthusiasm than he had the previous day. Or perhaps it was still the same day, but that didn't really matter. With his nose buried in Kenny's hair, he smiled; Kenny still smelled the same.

Kenny didn't look the same though; he realised when he drew back. Sure, not even a blind man would take him for anyone else, but small things had changed. His hair was shorter than it had been in their teens; still curly but only just brushing against his ears, a few inches shorter than last time he had seen him close up. Features remained the same, a bit sharper, more mature; , Kyle realised with a sting in his heart.

But his eyes. The shape and the colour was still the same, but there was a depth that almost looked wrong on Kenny's face. Aloof, easy going (as well as just plain easy), rather perverted and carefree pretty much summed up the Kenny he had known. But this version looked damaged, hurt. If the Goths back in school had worn that dark undertone in their eyes, he might actually have sympathised with them. On Kenny, it just looked plain wrong.

And yet, despite the obvious pain in his blue pools, he still smiled. It broke his heart, it really did.

"Dude, that's my line," Kenny said with small smile. "Oh, right."

He leaned down and stuck his hand into a backpack that rested against his legs. After a moment of fumbling, he triumphantly held up an orange. He pressed the fruit into Kyle's hands.

"Here. It's not much, but it's all I got at the moment. We're in a truck right now; we'll reach the base shortly. There's more food there. And if you even think of giving it back, I'll shove it right down your throat, peel and all. "

The last part was added when Kyle furrowed his brows and was about to protest, not keen on taking Kenny's last source of nutrition. After the threat however, he settled with a half hearted glare, but Kenny didn't seem to be bothered by it. Quite the on the contrary, his features took on a rather amused expression as he smirked at his old time friend. For just a moment, his eyes had returned to their old shine. That moment passed fast though, making Kyle doubt that he had even seen it in the first place.

"Look Kyle," he started, his posture sobering up, "There's a shitload of stuff that's confusing us right now. Don't be surprised if some of the guys don't exactly take to you. I mean, we saw you die. That's not something you recover from easily. Well, unless you're yours truly, that is."

The joke was more of a habit rather than a serious try of lightening up the mood, as was Kenny's smile of the tired kind.

"But really, dude; we need to know how you can sit here and talk to me when you're supposed to be dead."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Kyle asked, befuddled.

The insistence that he was dead seemed to be based on something stronger than just his long absence, not to mention the fact that he'd been told that they had seen him die. To his knowledge, no one had even seen him get shot.

"We all saw Cartman shoot you. He put a gun to your head, pulled the trigger. It wasn't an ordinary gun; it was more powerful than that. After the shot, there was nothing left of your head."

"Cartman stood on the roof." Kyle turned his head and caught sight of Clyde, who had interrupted Kenny. Just as well, the blond man had started to turn green. "We were all on the ground below. I haven't a clue when it comes to how you, if you're really you, made it up there, but that's where you were. He called us out, wanting our attention. Held up your body. It lolled about, looked like a lifeless doll. A moment later, whatever was left of your head covered the ground, small pieces splattered everywhere."

The whole truck had gone silent, everyone either listening intently or trying to keep Clyde's words out. It was an awful story even for those who had joined after Kyle's disappearance; no one liked to hear about the gory end that had come to one of their own.

"It was nothing short of disgusting. I've seen dead people, hell I've seen people die regularly since I was five, no thanks to Kenny here. But that must have been among the most awful things I've ever been through," Clyde continued, making sure to keep his eyes of the redhead as he spoke. "You were among the first casualties; before you, we had only lost Kevin, and that wasn't a dramatic death. You probably remember; we managed to get him with us as we left the battlefield and he spent his last hours in a sickbed."

"But that was too much to handle, we still had a hard time grasping that any one of us might actually die. Wendy started crying hysterically, Kenny stopped functioning right then and there; we had to drag him off along with Stan. He threw up; I think there was a bit of your brain that had landed on his shoes."

Kyle wasn't surprised, he felt sick himself after hearing about his supposed gory demise, and Stan had always had something of a weak stomach. A picture of himself, standing on the top on the building he had spent his last six years in, only to have his head shot off by the vilest creature ever known to man was extremely disturbing. Subconsciously, he brought his hand neck; checking that it was still in place, still connecting head to body. Suddenly, a thought he had no idea of how he had managed to push down for so long came to the surface of his mind.

"Oh shit, Stan! Where's Stan? He wasn't out there tonight, was he? I didn't see him, did you leave him behind or is he at the -"

"Kyle," Kenny interrupted softly, this time looking truly miserable, "Kyle, I'm sorry but we don't know where he is. He and his group should have returned a week ago, but we haven't heard from them."

"What?"

It came out as more of a terrified whisper rather than an actual question.

"They were on a mission to convince Buick to come back. We found something that he built once but left incomplete. With his help, we would have the chance of turning this table around and force Cartman into his corner. Platoon seven, Skoda, Volvo and Chrysler, though you probably know them better as Stan Marsh, Wendy Testaburger and Craig Tucker, was sent to get him. According to our sources, they succeeded. But on their way back, they were intercepted by Cartman's soldiers."

His voice was strained, but Kenny kept on talking.

"We haven't heard from them since then, two weeks ago, and as I've said, they should have arrived a week ago at the latest. They were caught on open field; the chances that they would have managed to escape are minimal. Fat fuck doesn't take prisoners, you probably know better than I do as to why. You're the first one we've heard of; most of us just get killed on the spot. I'm so sorry, Kyle; you have no idea how much I hate to say this, but Stan's dead, and so are Wendy and Craig."

The orange slipped out of his limp hand and fell to the floors with a low thump.

* * *

I have a feeling I might have lost about half of my readers by writing those last paragraphs. Crap :S. If anyone is still there, I drew a cover pic for the story (yes, I really am that lame). you can find it here: http : // lotsofdarkroses . deviantart . com / art / Set - in - Stone - 114559947

Any ideas about who Buick might be? Shouldn't be too hard :P

And as a last statement, hand in hand with last week's; All that is gold do not glitter.


	6. When the First Wall is Falling

Welcome to chapter six!

Lovely Jew(misspelled on purpose): Here you have your update! Honestly, I had to force myself to stop smiling after reading your review, I'm really happy that you like the story!

Animegrl124: The waiting is now over, hope you survived! :P

thequillofdestiny: Oh dear, am I really that predictable? But yes, you are quite right, this is the chapter where the tale of Kyle's supposed demise is told. And keep up with the cursing, I find it amusing. ^^

dreams . of . destiny: I thanketh thee for thy loyalty! Perhaps you will find drama, action and suspense in this chapter too! (maybe :P)

And thanks to the Beta, Elbereth Gilthoniel, for keeping me from confusing you guys more than I should! Good luck with school!

* * *

Chapter IV – When the First Wall is Falling

_Six years earlier._

_Francis Beckon was the youngest child in a family of five. He had been born when both of his older siblings had been in their early teens. His mother had been a bit disappointed at the time of his birth; after two boys, she was ready for a girl. Sadly, she had to settle for another boy as the complications at his birth ended up taking away her fertility._

_Peter and Samuel, Francis' brothers, were very close throughout his childhood. Being born the same year, Peter in January and Samuel in December, they were even in the same class. At times, Francis felt a bit like an outsider, but Samuel always tried to make him feel better, if he noticed. Peter would also try to help._

_The two boys were bright and handsome; they graduated college with brilliant grades and tons of good friends and connections. By the time they were done with school, they rented a flat in New York, kissed their mother good bye, and left their small family home, looking for something bigger in life. Mrs. Beckon cried when they departed, but she was very proud. Francis looked out through the kitchen window as they left. Samuel saw him and gave him a bright smile before stepping into the old car they had bought together._

_It didn't turn out the way they had planned. Right after the arrival of the new millennia, Samuel was killed in a terrorist attack on their local library. Peter was destroyed and grief-stricken. Desperate to get revenge on those responsible for his brother's death, he joined the US army. Six months later, Francis found his mother crying in the living room, a paper in her clenched fist. _

_His father started drinking and spend time at random pubs and bars; he was found murdered in an alley only a block from their home, naked and reeking of booze._

_Francis' mother went crazy as the family lost one member after another. Suddenly, she found Francis grades insufficient. She started comparing his every action to those of his brother's, always finding something to complain about. He would follow his brothers' footsteps, but he would never even come close to surpassing them. She made that very clear._

_When she heard of the Russians and their plan on bombing the US, all she had to do was to look at him for him to sign up the following day. Peter, she remarked, would have joined before nightfall. _

_That's where he met President Eric Cartman. The first time he had met him face to face had been at a round up. President Cartman had walked up and down the line, his scrutinizing eyes wandering from man to man, sometimes giving an order to shave or tuck in a shirt. But when he came to Francis, he stopped. For a moment, all he did was stare. Then he turned his eyes to Francis' hair. A tug of a lock, then he let in bounce back._

"_Let it grow. A redhead looks stupid with their hair cut short."_

_Then he turned and left, leaving Francis staring confused after him. But he let his hair grow, even if it made him frustrated to have the scarlet curls bouncing around his head. Though he wondered why he was the only one told to do so; there were two other redheads in his group. Perhaps he finally had done something right and gained the favor of such an important man as the President. His mother would be so proud!_

_He had several more encounters with the President. Every time the man came by, he always found the time to exchange a word with Francis, who became more and more devoted to the man by each day. He admired his strength, his power and his way of handling the men. Soon, Francis was a part of his personal guard, always staying close to him when fighting._

_But at a particular battle between the newly formed rebels, idiotic hippies that actually _believed _that Russia hadn't done anything, President Cartman called him to, surprisingly enough, the roof._

"_Francis, come over here and watch it with me." _

_President Cartman had looked at him with a look in his eyes that made him nervous, but he repressed the need to run. This was his president, a man he'd serve even in death. He stepped forward and was graced with a satisfied smile._

"_Can you see them, Francis? Running around like ants, truly believing that they actually can defeat me. But they are wrong, aren't they, Francis?"_

"_Of course, sir," Francis immediately replied, as he had been trained to do._

"_And why is that?"_

"_Because you have us, sir, and we will serve you 'till the end."_

"_That's very nice of you to say, Francis." President Cartman smiled as he turned away from the scene__,__ . "I'm glad you feel that way. You should be happy too, as you will serve me better than you ever could have imagined. But I'm sorry to say, you will serve me better in death rather than in life. I apologize, Francis, but you look too much like him than for your own good."_

_Before Francis had the time to react to the words, President Cartman had taken a swing to his head. A betrayed shock was still evident on his face as he sagged to the ground. _

_Eric grabbed the fallen soldier's collar and held him up before himself, before turning his face to the unaware crowd below._

"_Rebels!" his voice was dark and carried well; the fighting ceased as the people, both soldiers and members of La Resistance, looked up, "Resistance is futile! Keep it up, and this is what you will become!"_

_He held up Francis unconscious body in a way that presented it to those below him. The smirk on his face grew as he heard the terrified gasps._

"_Kyle!" Oh, how well Eric recognized that voice. He looked down and met eyes with Stan Marsh, who looked very pale. "If you as much as touch one of his hairs, Cartman, I swear I'll kill you with my own hands!" _

"_Isn't that sweet? Worried about Jewboy, are yeh?" his old dialect started working up as he spoke, but he forced it down and brought the gun to Francis' forehead. "Well, I suppose that is a rational way of thinking, especially considering what I am about to do."_

_He pulled the trigger._

"_NO!"_

_Eric let the body fall to the floor with a thump. Ignoring the chaos that had broken out once again at the battlefield, he left the roof to find some of his more trustworthy men. After all, he needed someone to fetch the young man he had spotted collapsing in the bushes. But he knew Broflovski; he wouldn't die of a mere shot to his shoulder._

Present time, 2030.

Stan was dead. Stan Marsh was dead. _Stan Marsh _was _dead_.

He slowly repeated the words in his head, trying to grasp them but was unsuccessful each time. They didn't make any sense. He knew that Stan couldn't be dead, simply because he _couldn't be dead_. It was completely illogical and impossible. Kyle was fairly sure that there was a law of nature saying that Stan Marsh couldn't die, no different from the ones saying that an apple will fall down after throwing it up.

It would be unfair, so very, very unfair. For six years, six frigging _years_, he had waited for the time he would meet his best friend again, but now he was supposed to accept that he would never see him again. He was two weeks too late, and now he would have to pay for those two weeks for the rest of his life. If there was a god, there was no way he would let him suffer like that. Thus, it was impossible.

"FUCK!" he screamed, grabbing what was closest to him and hurling it against the door he sat in front of.

Sadly, the object was a sock and made very little impact on the door. Hardly making a sound as it connected with the wooden surface, it landed in a pitiful pile on the floor. He felt an insane need to tear the sad piece of clothing back into the threads it had once been, but had a feeling he'd fail miserably at that too. There seemed to be nothing he could do right.

Did the sorry excuse for a sock belong to Stan? Probably, it was Stan's room after all. A scent he shouldn't react to after the time they had been apart made his stomach twist and turn in ways that made him nauseous. Every time he closed his eyes, it was easy to imagine his former lover's body next to him; too easy as his mind did it without his consent.

While it might be a lovely fantasy, it didn't come close to outweighing the feeling of absolute despair that hit him like a wall each like time he opened his eyes and found the room empty.

Back in the truck, he vaguely remembered falling to the ground, but that someone had caught him before he reached the floor. Someone must have moved him from the truck to the room he was currently sitting in, but he couldn't recall. It was all fuzzy and dazed; he wasn't even sure that he had been conscious at the time. Though, he was quite sure that Kenny had been the one responsible for his new location.

Whether he should thank him for it or bang Kenny's head against the door until he stopped moving was still an ongoing debate inside his head. He desperately wished to escape the memories the room provided him with, but at the same time, there was an atmosphere in there that made him feel safe.

The safety was false; he knew that. The reason he felt safe was because of the traces Stan had left behind; and just like he had felt at home in Stan's old bedroom, he felt at home there. But Stan wasn't really there. He didn't inhabit the room anymore. He tried to push it away, but it was as if two parts of his body fought against each other. One wished for nothing more than to sink down among the pillows and blankets on the rickety old bed, which still smelled so strongly of Stan, and hide from the world and the absurdities it tried to force on him.

The other wanted to kick the door down and run as far away as he could, to somewhere where he could simply forget about the whole business.

As it turned out, he wasn't given the option of either of them. A soft knock on the door informed him that someone had heard the cry he had given out a moment earlier. If he remained silent, perhaps the intruder would go away and leave him to wallow in misery alone.

"Kyle? Kyle, I know you're in there. Kenny told me. I'm coming in."

Apparently not. It would seem that they still didn't trust him further than they could throw him, as they door had remained unlocked.

The door opened and revealed another man he had known for his entire childhood. Token Black stood in his doorway, looking as regal as ever with his tall figure. Since their childhood days, Token had tried to push away or cover up the obvious fact that he had a way certain air around him that far surpassed that of the rest of the South Parkers.

It was admirably, really, how he tried hard to make sure that none of them thought of him as higher than the rest of them. But certain things, such as his straight back, squared shoulders, proud neck and high forehead spoke of a stance, determination and intelligence that were usually found in a social class above the average.

The black man blinked as he caught sight of Kyle sitting hunched on the bed, watching him with bemusement.

"Kyle. Don't you look...different."

Not sure what to make of the remark, Kyle merely quirked a brow.

"So do you, and I guess you should. It's been years."

"Yes, it has, hasn't it?" Token cleared his throat and took a seat next to the grumpy man, looking highly uncomfortable as he did so. "Listen, I've been sent to – I mean, I've come to-,"

"In other words, Kenny sent you," Kyle interrupted with an amused smirk.

It seemed to be the right thing to say, as Token's demeanor changed into a more relaxed one. He gave Kyle a grateful smile before continuing.

"I guess you could say it that way, yes. But I'd like to think that I would have made my way here even if he hadn't. You see, I think that you and I need to talk."

Kyle knew, and so did just about every soul on the planet, that nothing good had ever come from those words. Against better judgment, he asked.

"What do you think that we need to talk about?"

"Stan."

Token looked at him with apologizing yet stern eyes as he moaned and buried his face in his arms. He really, really didn't want to talk about Stan right then and there. For Christ's sake, he had just been told that he might just have lost the person that could have been described as his soul mate, had the term not been so incredibly gay that even Big Gay Al would wrinkle his nose at it. Had these people no courtesy at all?

"Token, I don't want to talk about that right now, could you just please, _please_ go away?" he begged.

"I could," Token agreed, but shook his head, "But I won't. You might think that you're alone in your suffering, but guess what. You're not. Some of us have lived only feet away from Stan during the last seven years, do you really think that we would think nothing of his demise? And if you think about it, don't you think that I miss my best friend or my wife?"

Bitterness lazed his voice as he spoke, and the hand he had placed on Kyle's shoulder in comfort tightened almost painfully. Shocked and terrified, Kyle looked up, now seeing the black man in a new light.

"Shit! Token, I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I mean, I knew that you were close to Craig, but Wendy, when did that happen?"

"About four years ago. We suspected that she might be pregnant." Token smiled sadly, his mind straying ever so slightly from its path to a line of fond memories. "Turned out that she wasn't, but we decided that we should get married. It's this damn air of hillbilly that constantly surrounds us, you know? Makes us want to marry even if we have to threaten our loved one with a rifle."

"I didn't need a rifle though; all she wanted was to keep her last name. I came very close to having my name changed to Token Testaburger."

"Wendy never changed, did she?" Kyle sighed wistfully, eyes concentrated on the man beside him, careful not to reach into any forbidden subject.

"Never. She remained the same hardcore democratic, feministic puppy-lover until the day she, you know, suddenly wasn't there anymore."

Token shook his head free of the depressing thoughts and turned his head back to Kyle, this time with eyes clear of determination.

"What I came to say, Kyle, was that sulking and wishing for the time that's long lost gives you nothing. We're not gods. We can't make the dead rise again, but we can make sure that their deaths weren't for nothing. I'm not saying that we should forget them or push away the pain that we feel when we've lost them; hell, I'm telling you to embrace that pain, use it as your fuel. We will kill Cartman; make sure that there is not enough left of his fat ass for worms to feed on. They gave their lives for ours; we can't let that gift be wasted. With them in our memories, we will crush him like the bug he is; it's in their honor that we will reclaim our nation. We will give them their revenge as we free our planet."

Token's fingers were buried so deeply into Kyle's shoulder that it made it cramp, but neither of them noticed. Token's eyes stared at him with a barely tamed fury and passion that would have made Kyle piss his pants had he not known that they were on the same side. He placed his pale hand on the dark one and squeezed it.

"You're right. If you can't change the past, change the future. I'll do whatever I can to help La Resistance reach its goal, but I'd like a few hours of peace first. There is so much in my head I need to sort out before I can be of any help at all."

"Of course."

With an understanding nod and a, considerably gentler, squeeze of Kyle's now rather abused shoulder, he stood up to leave.

"You know, Token, you sounded like a President just now," Kyle said with a smile, causing the man to turn, a bit surprised at the slight teasing.

"I might have. Had it not been for Cartman," Token's forehead twitched as he said the name. "Chances are that I would have become the second black and the first male First Lord of this country."

"Now that would have been something for the history books."

"That it would." The self-proclaimed should-have-been First Lord agreed. "On a completely different note, I hope you're willing to postpone those hours of yours. You see, there's this young Canadian patiently waiting on the other side of this door. I think that he'd like to meet you."

"What?!"

Almost tumbling over his own feet in his eagerness to reach the door, Kyle flung the wooden barrier open. Preparing to see his little brother, Kyle lowered his gaze somewhat in order of seeing his face, but instead found himself staring into a chest covered by a well-worn black t-shirt.

Stunned, he looked up. Two wide, almost more black than brown, eyes stared at him with an equal amount of shock.

"Kyle?"

The two siblings stared at each other. Now that the first shock of seeing his brother as a grown-up had laid down, he realized that Ike really wasn't as tall as he first had seemed; an inch taller than Kyle at the most. Still, Ike had been short for his age throughout his teen years, though Kyle suspected that it might be his Canadian genes that had decided to take action.

This time, it was Kyle that made the first move. He threw his arms around his adopted brother just as he had years earlier, ignoring the discomfort the difference in height and body mass brought with it.

"Shit, Ike, you've grown like crazy!"

Long, lanky arms hugged him back; once again he had his breath forced out of him.

"It's you; I can't believe it's you! I don't care what they say, as if I wouldn't recognize my own flesh and blood!"

"Ike, you're adopted. ," Kyle managed to gasp out, feeling his face turning purple due to lack of air.

"Whatever, buddy," Ike snorted, head buried in his brother's hair. "That's all formalities. You might be too; we all know that mum dies her hair. Oh fuck, I can't believe it! I thought you were dead; I mean, I saw-,"

"I know, I know; you saw my brains. Trust me; I feel really sorry for whoever it was, but it wasn't me."

Kyle felt the Canadian shudder at the memory. It had been the first time Ike had ever been out in battle with them. Kyle had objected fiercely; he refused to put his baby brother in danger if he could help it. Sadly, as Ike was legally an adult, the decision fell on him alone. Knowing that it was quite an awful thing to wish for, Kyle still hoped that the experience had scared Ike away from the more physical field of the war.

"I'm just glad it wasn't you," Ike whispered. "I've missed you so much, every day. We talked about you all the time, me, Kenny and Stan. I could write a biography on you, you know, and it could have a far longer section on your romantic and sexual sides than I would have preferred knowing. I don't think he knew that we were in the room when he told us about it though; he seemed really distant when he did."

"You're talking about Stan."

Kyle successfully managed to keep his voice in control, but couldn't hide the shiver that went through his body.

"Yeah. Kyle, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault; I shouldn't have sent them away! I did everything I could to make sure that they were safe, but it wasn't enough. I failed."

A shill froze his body in place as his brother sobbed in his hair. It couldn't be true; his brother was speaking utterly nonsense. Of course, he couldn't have anything to do with their deaths. Could he?

"What do you mean? How could it be your fault?"

Pressed tighter against his emotional brother, Kyle could feel each breath he took and each syllable rumbling through his stomach as Ike explained.

"It's a project we've been working on, one of few that has actually been rewarding. I'd doubt you've heard of it; the new ones aren't too keen about giving you too much information at the moment; . Kenny's probably screaming at them right now for being stubborn assholes."

His breathed hitched, forcing him to stop and calm his breathing. Trying to urge his brother to keep up the talking, Kyle threaded his fingers through the black spikes, gently massaging his skull. Just like it had worked when Ike was small enough to sit comfortably in his lap, the effect was the same even when the Canadian had surpassed his twenties.

"We rummaged through the old high school once, we were hiding from Cartman's soldiers, and we took cover in the basement. Apparently, the school never really gets rid of anything, so we found a lot of strange shit down there. Craig even stepped on something we think have belonged to Garrison. I won't tell you what it was though; it's too disgusting to even think about.

"Among the crap we had to wade through, we found some things that looked projects for science fairs. I found this one thing that looked really interesting, and it had a button. There's nothing as appetizing to a man as a big, colorful button, so I pressed. Kinda foolish, I mean, I could have blown us up or something for Moses' sake! But I didn't. Instead, it created this blue bubble. Craig shot at it when he noticed that it was growing, but the bullet just bounced right off.

"We were in ecstasy! We had found an energy shield, just by accident! Needless to say, we took it and started experimenting on it. Certain material went through, other's didn't. Metal had to go through slowly, at least speaking it bullet terms, while organic materials slipped through easily. Cartman doesn't know, but if he had shot at us with coffee beans or peas, we'd be dead. Apples, carrots or even wood, it would have worked nonetheless."

So would heads, Kyle thought grimly, remembering the Fatass' suggestion on what he would do with Kyle's.

"But the shields aren't perfect, far from perfect. We've managed to control their volume, but their strength is unpredictable; at any time, they can just give out and leave us vulnerable. We sneaked back to the high school and tried to locate a clue about who the creator was, and we found it. Surprised is mild way of expressing our reactions when we found out that the genius was none other than Leopold Stotch."

If he looked anything like a goldfish, Kyle couldn't possibly care less. There was no way, _no way_, that little, innocent and naive Butters could have created a defense-shield that would have made the Star Trek geeks green with envy. Finding Kyle's choke highly amusing, Ike's mood bettered somewhat.

"Yeah, that's what we thought. But it was there, right in front of our eyes. I can't understand why he didn't tell us about his invention; he was with us for four years, taking the name Buick, before he couldn't handle it anymore. He left to hide out somewhere in Detroit. That's where I sent them, to get Butters back so that he would help us manipulate his shields so that we could end this war once and for all.

"Stan was supposed to be the friend, trying to coax him back with memories of your childhood adventures. Wendy is the arguer, she can make you do or believe just about anything. And Craig, well, he kicks your ass if you don't do what he says. With their abilities, I was sure that we would have him helping us within weeks."

Ike's hold grew tighter. His voice started sounding strained again, but he managed to keep on going.

"I thought of everything. I found roads that they could drive down without raising suspicion, places they could eat and rest safely. I even managed to get a hold of someone who knew where Butters lived, though they wished to remain uninvolved. When I heard that they had convinced him and were on their way back, I was almost high. I've never managed to do anything of importance here; they put me in your job and expected me to be as successful as you. But I don't know the doucebag the way you do. I might be smart, but that won't give me an understanding of something I know nothing about.

"Then it all crashed. I don't know how, it shouldn't have happened, the odds were practically nonexistent. In despite of all my calculations and preparations, they were discovered. I blew it, I blew the whole thing! I not only killed four people, four people _that I know_, I also destroyed the one chance we had of getting rid of Cartman!"

In the end, Ike more like shouted out the words than actually speaking them. The panic and despair came out in waves, strong enough to leave Kyle scared and speechless. He had hardly ever seen his brother so distressed, only a few times when the expectations had gone over his head. Just like his brother, Ike had a tendency of bottling things up, and then going into a frenzy. Clearly, he had remained closed about the whole thing until meeting Kyle. It might have been the need to relieve his heart to the person that had taken better care of him than their parents had that had caused the bottle to tip over and spew its content all over.

Doing the only thing he could think of, Kyle slapped him.

"Are you out of your mind?" he snapped furiously as Ike stared at him dumbfounded. "What happened was an accident; the only one to blame is Fatass. You did everything you could, what more can one ask? I'm not saying this as your brother; I'm saying this as Stan's fiancé," Ugh, there was that despicable word again, "I don't blame you."

"You don't?" Ike drew back and looked at him with skepticism. It took at Kyle had to refrain from hitting him again.

"No, I don't. I miss him; I can't stand knowing that I might not see him again. I still hope, and I'll continue doing that until his body is found. But even if…if he never comes back," he held back a visible shudder, he really didn't want to think about that possibility, "I'll still love you."

Ike searched his eyes franticly, trying to find anything that suggested otherwise. But Kyle's bright, green eyes shone back with honesty and love, never backing down on his words.

"Then you're an idiot," Ike mumbled, a small smile lightening up his features. "But thanks."

Kyle returned the gesture and leaned up to ruffle his brother's hair, much to the Canadian's displeasure. Just as Ike was about to whine about the childish treatment, a screeching sound filled the corridors. Doors to right and left were slammed open and people streamed out, wondering what the matter was.

The noise was adjusted, sounding like a giant intercom or megaphone, only slightly muffled. Then, a loud, booming voice started talking.

"_My dear rebels, it would seem that this little dispute between us is about to see its end. I'm asking you to surrender in an orderly fashion. If you follow my bidding, chances are that you will face a quick and pain free death. If not, well, I believe you can come up with something colorful. The Lord knows I can."_


	7. Facing the Limitations

Chapter seven; it tooks its sweet time, but here it is! Believe it or not, this was supposed to be the shortest chapter in the story, not counting the first, but I think I might haave failed at that one.

thequillofdestiny: You gave me quite the scare there, girl, I thought you were talking about my writing. Yeah, I love Ike, he's such a sweet little genius.

Lovely Jew: You silly goose, you're spoiling me with your generous words! Sadly, I'm loving you for it.

Animegrl421/Anime Angels421: Being human sucks. I wish I were a vampire, no need to eat or sleep, it's just too bad that vital things like internet cost money 't worry about the mix up, ir's very sweet of you but there's no need to apologize. Yes, "Weeks" is written mainly by Elizabeth, I only helped with certain parts. I forwarded the review to her, hopefully she'll get her lazy behind back on track soon enough.

Thanks once again to the lovely lady Elbereth Gilthoniel who, with the assistance of many cups of coffee, made this understandable and saved my face a few times.

* * *

Chapter VII – Facing the limitations

_Five years earlier_

_It took everything he had not to slam the door closed behind him as he left the small quarters attached to his own. God, how that little Jewish rat infuriated him! Eric had grown fond of his own cool demeanor; it gave him power and respect, made people fear him. But then, this disgusting little Jew shows up and knows exactly how to push his buttons. _

_For some reason, it was harder for him to keep his calm when it came to Kyle Broflovski._

_It would be easy, so very easy, to put an end to it all; without him, Broflovski was nothing. If he walked in there with a gun loaded and ready in his hands, there was nothing the little faggot could do to stop him. _

_He could be more subtle about it, make it painful even, by slipping him poison in his food or straight out deny him any source of nutrition, even water, and watch him die or starvation and dehydration. Hell, if he really wanted to draw in out and make him suffer, they had a chamber for 'investigation' that hadn't been used. Now that was an interesting thought. _

_In short, Kyle Broflovski's life was his to play with, to alter and end._

_So why didn't he? That confused him to no end._

Present time, 2030

His heart literally stopped. All around him, people had frozen, looking like sculptures from Madame Tussaud's. No one dared to make a sound, but their eyes darted between every corner in the hallway, trying to hear where the voice came from.

"_Poor, lost souls. There is no way for you to escape. I know of your exact location. In fact, my army is standing right on top of this sad little underground hut that you call your headquarters. Now, you cannot say that I am not generous. I am prepared to give an easy way out. You have fifteen minutes. If you surrender before the time runs out, you will be rewarded will a swift and clean death, a simple bullet to your head."_

"He's not even trying." It wasn't until he was faced with over forty pairs of frightened eyes that he realized that he was the one who had spoken. "He doesn't _want_ us to leave. He wants us to go down with as much misery and agony as he could possibly force on us."

"No shit, Sherlock," Kenny replied dryly, his jaw clenched tightly. Just like the others, he had appeared in the hallway only seconds after the siren had gone off.

"_You have fifteen minutes at your disposal. Use them well, and then give your decision."_

Even if one knew what would come, it didn't change one's feelings of surprise and shock as the moment of truth crept closer. The rebels in the hallway panicked. It's easy to accept and agree to things when they are only words, but when the words suddenly create a reality, it becomes harder to face the decision. A long time ago, they all had agreed that they were willing to sacrifice their lives in the battle against Fatass. But right then and there, many of them lost their courage.

"Order!" Kenny shouted and banged on the door closest to him as he tried to regain their attention. "Running around like brain-dead chickens ain't gonna help us. Assembly in the meeting hall in two! Spread the word. We don't have much time."

With that, he spun on his heel and walked away without another word, leaving a small crowd staring after him.

A small nudge on his shoulder made Kyle look up. Wordlessly, Token nodded in Kenny's direction.

"C'mon, I don't think anyone will disagree about having you in on the meeting. We're all pretty fucked anyway."

The tall, black man made his way after Kenny, Kyle and his little brother not far behind. He looked around, watching the rebels try to collect themselves and join the stream of people that slowly grew. They looked so strange; neither scared of dying nor excited for fighting. Instead, they marched on with blank faces and dim eyes. As they all were dressed in similar clothes in dark green, though sometimes more grey than green, likely due to filth and over excessive usage, the impersonal faces made them all look the same. Suddenly, he found it hard to distinguish one person from another.

"Don't mind them; they're just processing," Token told him in a soft murmur while glancing at a blonde girl walking next to them, her eyes directed against the floor.

Kyle looked at the young woman. She was very pretty, even considering her situation. A long braid fell along her back, shining golden in the bright hallway. A few strands of her hair had broken free from their confinement, though, and fell in bright curls that brushed her nose. She must have felt him looking as she glanced up, connecting his eyes with her own soft brown pools. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she saw him gaping.

"Hi, Tweek told me you were back. Good to see you alive."

"It's good to see you too, Bebe. Sorry the circumstances aren't better though."

With a smile somewhere between amused and disbelieving, Bebe shook her head.

The meeting hall was not huge but still spacious enough to keep all of the rebels inside. It was obviously built for a smaller number of people though. There were only room for twenty around the big table in the middle and the number of rebels was, as far as Kyle had seen at least, at least three times that. After being pushed around by others, some wearing rather familiar faces but mostly strangers, he found himself right behind a chair at one of the table's ends.

Ike moved past him and took the seat, apparently finding himself important enough to deserve a chair at their final meeting. Perhaps he was; no one made an objection. Token even wandered over to stand behind him and right beside his tense older brother.

Kenny, looking more tired than ever, took a seat at the other end in a chair that had been saved, presumably especially for him. It might have been the artificial light or the dust in the air that made wrinkles appear in his forehead and under his eyes, but Kyle wasn't entirely convinced.

Massaging his temples with his index fingers, Kenny kept his eyes shut until the murmur silenced. He opened his eyes to see that all eyes in the rooms were fixated on him. Poor thing, they all looked at him for a way out of the mess they had been thrown into, but it was doubtful that Kenny could give them the answer they sought. Wearing the look of someone in a serious battle with oneself, Kenny looked out at them.

"Well, this is it. In eleven minutes and forty-six seconds, we'll be under attack, . " Kenny's pale fists clenched where they lay on the table. "This is something we normally should have been able to handle, but I'm sorry to say that the escape tunnels still haven't been cleared since the earthquake. No one is to be blamed. We've all been working our asses off with the preparation of the attack on Cartman's compound, which you all know ended in a failure. The douchebag was away; probably planning this attack or something, and we left empty-handed."

"Not entirely," Ike snapped from his end of the table. "Platoon nine managed to get their hands on some blueprints, not to mention that platoon fourteen rescued my brother. It might have been everything we wanted it to be, but failure is the wrong word."

As to be expected, all heads turned to Kyle who lingered behind his younger brother. He came very close to slapping Ike in the back of the head for the blurt-out. He had hoped to remain a background character and make as little ruckus as possible.

"Ike, I already told you; no one is to blame. Your plan on finally getting Cartman was great. We couldn't have foreseen his absence. Personally, I agree with you about Kyle; we've already had that discussion, but-"

"It's his fault then!"

A young man with black hair, barely past his twenties, glared at Kyle with disdain. Next to the redhead, Ike groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Fiat, we don't-" Kenny started, but was cut short by the hot-tempered Canadian.

"Oh, shut up, Filmore! Kyle wouldn't sell us out to Cartman. They've hated each other's guts since kindergarten."

Filmore? That sour-looking man was the kid who had played with his brother in their backyard?

"Perhaps not intentionally, but did you even think about looking for a tracer?"

Ike's irritation quickly disappeared. Instead, he looked at his childhood playmate with obvious shock, then turned his eyes to his brother. The way he bit his lip as he faced the redhead was all Filmore needed to smirk grimly.

"That's what I thought. Geo!" called Filmore.

A mousy girl in the back look terrified at having her code name called. People standing around her moved apart, so that everyone in the room noticed who Filmore was talking to.

"I've showed you the detector for electromagnetic signals before. Go get it, and be quick about it," he added commandingly.

"That's it!" Kenny barked, having had enough of the rash youngsters and deciding to put an end to it. "Don't you think that we have more important things to worry about? Whether or not Kyle's wearing a tracer won't matter in minutes. Why waste our time on investigating shit that won't make a difference?"

Filmore fell silent, but continued watching Ike with evil eyes, which the younger Broflovski had no trouble returning.

What had happened between the two? Last time he had seen them together they had gotten along swimmingly, although that was when the two of them went to high school. Filmore hadn't been a part of La Resistance when Kyle had gone missing. Filmore seemed to intensely dislike Ike to say the least. As if he would wear a tracer. The thought was ridiculous. It would be quite hard not to notice a wound that suddenly appeared.

Unless, of course, it was hidden within his clothes.

A cold shiver went down his spine, and he could feel himself beginning to sweat. He felt dirty, soiled, for having worn clothes that might have been the cause of his fellows' impending deaths. The bile rose in his throat, coming threatening close to his mouth when a firm hand grabbed his shaking shoulder.

"Calm down. We knew of the possibilities that this might happen; that's why you were given new clothes so soon. We burned your old ones, but it appears we weren't quick enough about it," Token whispered in a stern but soothing voice. He was very quiet though, so Kyle assumed that the decision to take him in hadn't been unanimous. "We just didn't think we would have so little time, that's all."

"Are you completely insane?" Kyle hissed back furiously, not believing what his ears was telling him. "You should have just left me in the forest if you suspected that I might be bugged or whatever. What the hell were you thinking?"

"One for all and all for one. It's the saying of the musketeers, and now it belongs to us. No one is left behind, no matter the cost," Ike answered for him, and then added with a pained smile, "I'd give my live for anyone in this room, and that includes Filmore. They'd do the same for me. It was agreed on when we moved to this place."

It was admirable, really. Foolish, but admirable nonetheless. He was scared out of his wits, true, but at the same time he was very proud over his younger brother were he sat calmly, prepared to give everything for what he believed in.

"All right people, the tea party's over, ." Kenny sounded as if he was ready to give up on holding their attention. "I'm sorry, but there really isn't any time for a faggy farewell speech. But know this; : I know each and every one of you, some I'd like to have known better and some I regret knowing at all. Sorry for that. The thing is, as you all probably know, that I have a greater chance of surviving this than you all have, but it's been three years since I died last time, so I can't promise anything. Still, should I walk this Earth alive tomorrow or any day after, I want you all to know that if you die today, I'll make sure that none of you will be forgotten. The doors to the storage have been unlocked, and I want the weapons there to be used _today._ Just make sure that no one is left without a chance of defending themselves. Tonight might be the night we go under, but at least we'll do it together."

The hall was as silent as the grave it would soon become. No one wanted to make the first move, take the first step toward their death. It wasn't until Filmore huffed and rolled his eyes, before struggling to make it out of the room that was filled to the rim of people, that they understood that it was now or never.

"What are you waiting for, ass wipes?" Ike had stood up and tried to get through the mass, but his actions were unsuccessful. "Start moving and go get a gun."

"Well, aren't you an eager one?" Kyle muttered as he followed him.

The crowd had finally started moving, which made it easier to get forward, but he was still being crushed. Thankfully, he walked right between Ike and Token; two of the tallest men in the room, which earned him some space.

"I kinda have to. There's this AK, you see. It's not that it's extremely powerful or anything, it's just that I got it from a friend a few years ago, and I've made a few adjustments. I hate weapons, but this one I can stand. It's more than just a way of, you know, disposing of people," Ike made a disgusted face, . "It's a gift and holds a sentimental value. Unfortunately, I can't really hold a personal claim on it, and Filmore likes being an ass and take it."

"That's…too bad."

Even if he tried to sound comforting, he felt that he didn't really understand the Canadian's way of reasoning. To him, a weapon was a weapon and nothing more. A certain model could feel more right than another due to having a certain form or weight, but that was pretty much it.

Ike sighed and shook his head at his apparent confusion.

"You don't get it. It's like when you fell in love with your stupid artificial families on The Sims; for some reason, you just can't drown them in the pool anymore, although those guys aren't even real. It's a way of bonding to a dead object, not because you like the thing itself but rather the memories and experiences it carries with it. They don't even need to be positive ones, but they still turn your weapon into an extension of yourself."

"Oh."

That made a little more sense. It was like a blanket or teddy bear you had when you were a child and refused to have your mother or father throw away. In his own case, that would be the hideous ushanka he had worn to hide his even more hideous jewfro.

"Never mind." Ike glared down the hallway. Unlike Kyle he was actually able to see something. "He already got it. Let's just grab something so we can get this shit over with."

He managed to see what Ike already had seen when he stretched his neck and went up on his toes. About twenty people ahead of them, Filmore stood talking to the mousy girl he had called out earlier. In his hand was a pistol, most likely the one Ike had talked about. As they were to walk by pair, Ike with his gaze stubbornly locked on the empty air before him, the young Canadian's rival called him out.

"Hey, Broflovski."

Sparing him an annoyed glance, Ike suddenly found the pistol he couldn't shut up about in his arms.

"There, quit pouting," Filmore said with a smirk as he slung him arm around Geo's shoulders. With the blushing girl next to him, and a rifle over his shoulder, he turned his back to them and left for the exit, but not before raising his hand and giving a final salute. "Use it well, okay, buddy?"

"I'm not your buddy, guy!" Ike shouted back.

"I'm not your guy, friend!" Filmore yelled over his shoulder.

Confused, Kyle glanced between the retreating couple and Ike, who gaped stupidly after the strange exchange. He even seemed to have missed the pun at his Canadian inheritance, using the word 'buddy', something that would have earned him a fist in the face when Ike was younger.

"Dude, what just happened?" he asked, successfully regaining Ike's attention.

But his brother just shook his head dismissively and disappeared into the storage. When he returned, he held a gun and two boxes of matching bullets.

"It's a long story. It'd take more than three minutes to explain. Let's just say that we have a very messed up friendship." He pushed the fetched objects into Kyle's unsuspecting hands. "Here, I'm sure that you remember how to use them properly. It's already loaded; we keep them that way in case of emergencies." A humorless smile. "Seems like it was a good idea, too."

Not wanting to spend his last minutes annoying his brother, Kyle took the gun quietly and pushed the two boxes down into the pockets on his newly acquired green jacket.

They walked on side by side quietly. The hallway grew wider as they got closer to what he could assume was the main entrance. About twenty people ahead were two big, sturdy doors made out of old, firm, grey metal. There were a few slight indentations that graced the otherwise smooth surface, but other than that it held no signs of being the only barrier between them and Fatass.

Kyle swallowed nervously. He had seen him for just about every day in six years, but to see him face to face in the situation they were currently stuck in was far less than tempting.

"Listen up!" Kenny's clear voice filled the hallway. "I don't want to see any of you using the main gate, got that? That would be like lining up against a wall wearing blindfolds. We'd give them no fight at all. Most of you have used at least one of the minor earlier; those are the ones we'll use. They are most likely expecting us to go through our main, so this will be our one chance to surprise them. These exits will only lead you about thirty feet from where they are expecting us, so you'll still be discovered. If we do this quickly, we might get out alive. When out there, we'll fight 'till the last man standing and remember, I can't stress this enough, Cartman is our goal. He's the vampire, the queen bee; without him it'll all fall. _Viva La R__é__sistance!_"

"_VIVA LA R__É__SISTANCE!_"

The rebels took after their leader and screamed with him, and Kyle himself joined in as well. This was it; he'd help killing the Fatass who had robbed him of years of his life and of his fiancé, or at least die trying.

Their shouting must have gone through the walls; the sound of a cracking megaphone reappeared and Fatass's voice soon boomed in the corridor again.

"_Judging by what I'm hearing, you have come to a decision. A quite foolish one, I'm sorry to say. Very well then. This will soon be over. Let's just all pray that God spares you from the burning inferno you all very much deserve and takes pity on your souls."_

With a "click," the megaphone died and the hall was once again empty. This time, though, people took it personal. While perhaps not entirely at terms with their fate, they still found it in them to quickly divide into groups and spill into the doors at the sides, which led to the smaller exits. Kenny came up next to him and slung an arm over his shoulders, much like Filmore had with scaredy-cat Geo.

"Together 'til the end, right, dude?" he smiled grimly and hugged Kyle closer to him. "That's what we used to say, all those years ago, us South Parkers. Only half the troop left, I'm afraid."

"It's time to avenge them, then," Token added and he walked up to them, followed by Clyde, Tweek, Bebe, Filmore and a few others, all having lived in South Park at one point or another. "At least there's more of us than we thought, counting Kaiser here."

"Kaiser?"

"That would be you, Kyle. Wendy insisted that we'd have one for you as well, in memorial."

Kyle immediately regretted every word he had said against Wendy. There hadn't been many since elementary school, when they had realized that they were excellent lab-partners, but before that, when she had broken Stan's heart every other week, there had been plenty. Brilliant, beautiful Wendy who had been taken from them like so many others, this was her night.

"Let's go. South Park takes the south gate, that's just great." Clyde made his way forward with Tweek by his heels, the others soon after.

After a short uphill climb, Clyde pushed a door above them open. Right above them shone the stars, happily twinkling without a thought of the mortals under them. They couldn't hear anything other than voices in the distance, but in the silent night, even murmuring would stand out clear.

Clyde stuck up his head and looked around. After deciding that the coast was clear, he heaved himself up through it soundlessly, and then leaned back down to help Tweek up. So they continued until all of them stood, or rather lay, on the ground, their faces buried in the grass.

They were close to the top of a hill, covered by bushes and trees but were still visible if the soldiers looked carefully enough. There, down in the clearing in front of the main entrance, surrounded by several men dressed in black, stood the Fatass, the ever present smirk on his face. Behind him, there must have been at least a thousand soldiers, but Kyle didn't have the heart to count accurately. He could have brought more of them, easily ten times the number present, but apparently he didn't deem them dangerous enough. Disgusted with himself, Kyle was forced to admit that he was right.

"Wait for the signal, then shoot. Take down as many as you can and don't be afraid to use your legs," Kenny wheezed at them where they lay, eyes focused on the fat man below, though he was hardly visible behind his bodyguards.

"What's the signal?"

"Oh," Kenny said with an evil smile. "You'll notice."

Kenny then clenched his fist tight and barely seconds later, the ground under the entrance started to rumble and then fall down into a whole underneath. In Kenny's hand was a small detonator, securely held tight. He had blown out the supporting walls in the headquarter, causing the dirt above to fill the void, dragging at least fifty soldiers with it. Unfortunately, their leader had been at a safe distance and watched calmly as parts of his army were swallowed by the earth.

On the cue, over eighty firearms started shooting against them. Several dropped within seconds, but after the first few seconds of surprise, the soldiers drew up their shields. Unlike those that La Résistance had used, they were only made out of metal, but it was all they needed. The rebels had no choice other than to move closer in order to get in a hit. Running would be futile, so they did the only thing they could.

They fought.

They knew it would happen, but the first cry of pain coming from one of their own still came as an eye-opener. Kyle didn't know who it was. Chances were that he had never known them as they were on the other side on the field, which meant that they were an outsider. Still, the scream made his blood freeze and boil at the same time. Somehow, even if it sounded horrible even to his own ears, that cry sounded more human than any of those coming from the soldiers. He didn't stop shooting though, no one did. He kept on shooting until someone cried out right next to him.

"Filmore!"

Ike threw himself after his old time classmate and dragged him in behind a bush. They were only ten feet away from where he stood behind his tree, so he glanced at them between every shot, making sure that no one was sneaking up on them. He heard a wet coughing and glanced at them again, but this time more at them rather than their surroundings. A big, red stain had spreading over Filmore's chest. Almost in awe, Filmore stared at his hands, red after touching his own chest.

"Shit! Ike, I'm dying! I'm dying!" Filmore whispered hard enough for Kyle to hear.

"No, you're not. That's just nonsense," Ike said in a choked voice, though it was probably meant to be comforting. "You're just being stupid, guy."

"Don't go Canadian on me. I'm dying. Look, I'm bleeding to death!" The blood continued pouring out over his fingers, flowing from his clothes to Ike's. "I should probably tell you that I'm sorry, right? That I regret everything and that I wish it ended differently. They always do that in movies when they die."

Ike didn't say anything as Filmore laughed dryly, only held him harder as he continued.

"But I don't. I'm not sorry that I love you, Ike, and I don't regret telling you that I do. I – I just wish I hadn't been such an asshole when you didn't."

What? Filmore was in love with Ike? But the girl that clung to him at the headquarters, not to mention that Ike's obsession with boobs came only second to Kenny's?

"I'm sorry for not loving you the way you want me to."

Oh. Ooh. So that was what had split them up. Kyle saw Filmore through new eyes, he wasn't just an angsty young man blaming the world for everything that was wrong. He was also a young man who had given away his heart only to have it passed back with a "sorry". He saw himself as he could have been, had he been unlucky, what he had laid in his bed many nights fearing to be.

Kyle had enough decency to look away from his brother when the tears started slipping down his cheeks. He focused on Filmore, who shook his hand dismissively with what must have been the last of his strength.

"Don't worry. That's okay. You're still my friend though."

It was barely a whisper, and his hand fell down to lie still in Ike's lap.

"I'll always be your friend, buddy."

Ike leaned down and pressed his lips against Filmore's stiff ones. The red chest had stopped moving, and Ike carefully slipped the lifeless eyes closed.

Filmore O'Donnell was dead.

Kyle moved to get his brother away from the dead body but his feet, not used to wearing shoes, never mind walking on uneven surfaces, trod wrong and soon had him rolling down the hill. Stones and bumps scratched and bruised his body and clothes on his way down, until he reached the bottom and landed in a heap before a pair of feet clad in boots. Their shine material glimmered evilly at him where he sat, not daring to look up.

"Served straight on a silver platter, hmm?" a cold voice said, belonging to the man in the boots, thankfully one he didn't recognize. The gratitude disappeared as he felt the chilly metal of a barrel pressed into the skin right below his hairline.

His own gun had fallen out of his hand during his fall, and there was nothing he could grab to use as a weapon. Practically feeling the cold pulsate from the nose of the gun as it was pointed at his forehead, he closed his eyes and prayed to God, Jesus, and his mother that he wouldn't feel anything but simply fall down dead.

Suddenly, there was an explosion behind him, and he heard something that sounded like a dying car coming against him at a high speed. The soldier inhaled fearfully and was about to remove the gun from Kyle, but he didn't have the time.

"I think not, asshole," A dark voice said loudly, and he hunched together as he heard the sound of a bullet pierce the air.

Had the bullet been for him, he wouldn't have stood a chance but as it was, the boot-clad soldier fell to ground, dead long before he reached it.

Shocked, Kyle turned his head and looked up the hill. A jeep was parked in the middle of it, containing a coarse-looking chauffeur with cigarette at the corner of his mouth, and three passengers: a woman with short black hair poking out from under a cap hanging out from a window, a pissed off young man clinging on to the back wearing a blue hat, and a blonde who sat in the back, trying to look as small as possible – All of them were heavily armed.

But he barely saw them. Between the car and himself stood a man he'd recognize any day, even if he looked rougher with unkempt hair, dirty clothes and hard lines in his face that hadn't been there six years earlier.

"Stan…" The words had barely left his mouth before he stumbled over to the man, whose face soon went from furious to disbelieving.


	8. Hiding Amongst the Crumbles

Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay, there's been a lot of stuff going on, but here it is, at last, chapter eight!

quillofdestiny: Ha ha, you realize that you asked me to update on the Day after Tomorrow, don't you? He he, my humour sucks. I won't tell you the numbers of chapters left, that's a secret (and I'm not 100% sure myself). Anyhow, you're great at calling my plotlines even without knowing that, if I told you you might figure out the whole story from this point. :P

Animegrl421: Shush you, that's very bad for my ego. Next thing you know, I'll be walking around with a head the size of the empire state building! My classmates are already wondering why I'm smiling every time I check my e-mail.

marilynmanson1990: That's very nice of you to say, thank you! All of my readers have a special place in my heart, especially those who reviews. ^^ Hope you enjoy this chapter as well!

Lovely Jew: LJ, my dear, it's all in the past. :) In this chapter you will find a face you've been mentioning more than once...

Thank you, my dear beta Elbereth Gilthoniel, who has agreed to become my permanent beta! You rock! Due to her editing-skills, this came out much faster than I expected.

Now, on to the story...

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Chapter VIII – Hiding Amongst the Crumbles

_Four years earlier._

"_That was incredibly stupid," Filmore muttered as he patched up Ike's left arm. "And you're supposed to be a genius. Who the hell made that prognosis?" _

"_I don't know, probably some fat, bald, overpaid old man," Ike said nonchalantly, then broke his cool image as he howled in pain. "Fuck! Are you trying to help me or kill me?"_

"_Don't be such a girl, Broflovski," Filmore wheezed between clenched teeth. _

_Ike's arm was covered with cuts and bruises and would with all probability swell up nicely, and he had to remove the stones and other shit that had entered the wounds. If he didn't, Ike might very well lose the limb to an infection. The reason to the loud, painful cry was a two-inch long piece of glass that had buried itself inside of the arm._

_Filmore felt really badly for his friend every time Ike's hissing went up a notch, a feeling that only grew in intensity when he thought about the fact that it was he that was to blame for the whole mess. There had been so much going on that he hadn't noticed the telephone pole that had finally taken too much damage and gave in to the force of gravity. Ike, on the other hand, had noticed, and threw himself at Filmore to get him out of the way, but the result had been that Ike's arm had gotten stuck underneath Filmore's body and then remained there as they slid forward on the sidewalk. Needless to say, it hadn't been a pretty sight._

"_I know you are, but what am I?" Ike snapped, quite possibly his worst comeback since the time he could only say "Cookie Monster" and "I pooped my pants."_

"_Just told you; _a girl_." Filmore emphasized his statement as he pulled out a stone that had been buried especially deep, earning him a yelp. "Don't change the subject. I don't want you to do that again, do you hear me? You could not only lose your arm; if you had done it even a second later, you wouldn't be alive right now."_

"_Good for me that I have excellent reflexes then," Ike joked, though the humor didn't quite make it through as his face was distorted in pain. "What does it matter? It's not as if I died. I just saved your life, why are you complaining? You should be kissing my ass right now, not sitting there and bitching while you're torturing me."_

_Filmore stood forcefully, the small utensils falling from his lap and landing on the floor. Ike blinked at him, startled by his friend's hasty move._

"_What does it matter? You aren't serious, are you? You could have died!" Filmore yelled, voice high-pitched and pointing at Ike with the tweeze he had used to remove the stone. "I'm just a footman, a face in the crowd. This organization needs me just about as much as they need Anne or Jason; we'd be missed but in reality we're replaceable. You, on the other hand, are not. They need you, _I _need you, alive and kicking, otherwise our security would fall apart. So don't you dare go risking your life for me. But most importantly, how do you think I would feel knowing that it was my fault you died?"_

_Before Filmore even had the time to finish his sentence, Ike had left his seat and hugged him furiously, even with his damaged arm._

"_Don't talk about yourself like that," Ike muttered. "You're my best friend; you mean the world to me. I'd happily go fall into the grave if it meant you didn't. I love you, buddy."_

"_I love you too, man," Filmore said honestly, then suddenly realized that he was forced to look up to be able to look Ike straight in the face. "But you've grown as hell! What have you been eating?"_

"_Babies," Ike answered, looking dead serious; not cracking up until Filmore hit him hard in his uninjured arm._

_That was the day Filmore realized that he might just like his friend a little bit than what he would have preferred. _

Present time, 2030

About three feet away from him, Kyle came to a halt. Not because he wanted to, he wanted nothing more than to have the other man in his arms again, to feel hot skin under his fingertips and brush away the hair that almost completely hid his left eye. But he daren't, as Stan had yet to lower his weapon. It was obvious that he didn't have it pointed at him by intention, yet it was still a tad scary to jump a man with a loaded rifle.

"Stan," he spoke slowly and with a soft voice, as one would when talking to a child, "You recognize me, don't you?"

Stan didn't answer; instead he just stared at him with his lips slightly apart. He looks like he's facing a ghost, Kyle thought. Then realized that that was probably what Stan thought he was doing. Slowly, the rifle fell out of Stan's hands and landed with a thud on the ground, but he didn't seem to notice.

He felt absolutely ridiculous when he crept closer. Not wanting to scare the living wits out of Stan by having him think that he was being attacked by the ghost of his deceased best friend, he made his way slowly instead of just jumping him. When he came up face to face with him, barely inches apart this time, he stopped once again.

Big, and rather dirty, Kyle noticed and wrinkled his nose, hands came up and cupped his face. The thumbs brushed up against cheekbones and slowly traced his lips. Nose, chin, eyebrows and forehead; every inch of his face was carefully mapped out, but Stan's gaze never left his. One hand even moved up to pinch his earlobe.

"I thought you were dead."

Stan's voice was low and harsh, but he didn't know if that was a natural development or just something caused by the situation itself. Just glad to hear Stan's voice, he didn't care either way.

"So did everyone else, and we thought that you were dead too."

"I figured."

It was so strange. When he had been lying in his bed and thought about his reunion with Stan, a dream that had been daily at first, but with the years had become less and less frequent, this surely hadn't been what he had expected. It might be all the cheesy movies they had watched in Mr. Garrison's class, but he had expected something like running up to one another, falling into each other's arms, and then kissing passionately.

He didn't complain. What they shared in that moment felt more like them; subtle and what could be seen by others as rather small. Those people didn't understand the importance of the small, seemingly insignificant things that said so much if you bothered to recognize them. Screw them, they had no idea of what they missed.

"SHIELD!"

The sudden shout broke the little bubble of safety they had created and with a jerk pulled them back into the real world and all it brought with it; bullets, blood and stubborn enemies. One of Stan's hands flew down to hit on his belt buckle while the other was used to pull Kyle closer into him.

From his new position, Kyle looked over Stan's shoulder; Wendy, the one who had given the order, sent him a brilliant white smile as she jumped out through the window or the car and landed on the grass with a grace of a panther, looking equally slick and vicious. Then she turned blue, along with the rest of the world.

Awed, he pulled away far enough from the body he was pressed up against to be able to look to his sides properly. They were on the inside of a shield, just like the one La Resistance had used when they attacked Fatass's compound, but the shape was different. More shaped like an egg, it covered their heads with several inches to spare, grew slimmer around the middle, and then melted together with the ground. He looked to Stan for an explanation, but his eyes were focused on something else. Turning his head as far as he could, being held the way he was, he inhaled sharply when he saw what must have been the cause of Wendy's yell.

A few meters away stood one of the soldiers. His gun pointed straight at them. Visibly surprised by unpredicted appearance of the shield, he quickly collected himself and fired with Stan and Kyle standing directly in the bullet's way.

If you stand on the side of a one-way mirror that lets you see the other side, you often feel as if those standing on the other side can still see you, even if you know that's impossible. That was how it felt when he saw the bullet come at them, he knew that it wouldn't be able to penetrate the power field, but it didn't help the shill that spread throughout his body and made him cling onto Stan. By the way Stan cowered and painfully dug his fingers into Kyle's back, he concluded that Stan felt the same way.

The bullet, followed by several others, seemed to move in slow-motion. Their eyes followed it as it made its way closer and closer to the blue layer. It made contact, but instead of forcing the shield to give in, it bounced off and landed on the ground.

In a swift motion, Stan fished up the rifle from the ground without loosening his grip.

"This," he muttered and closed one eye to focus better, "Is how we do it."

He stuck out the hand holding his weapon outside of the protecting layer. The soldier must have understood that he didn't stand a chance against the men opposing him, but he stood form and kept firing off at them. It was useless: with a press at the trigger, a bullet flew out from the nose of Stan's rifle and went straight for the guy's forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"Holy shit!"

Kyle didn't know what he referred to: the soldier's sudden appearance, the shield, the near death experience or the fact that Stan just killed someone right before his eyes. True, it wasn't the first time, and he couldn't exactly say that he hadn't ever done it himself; but it was nothing he'd ever enjoy.

Stan ignored his outburst.

"Remember to always keep your entire weapon on the other side of the power-field, otherwise the bullet will bounce back into the gun, and it can explode right in your face."

Confused about the sudden professionalism in Stan's voice, Kyle nodded slowly. "'Kay"

Stan looked at him blankly, and then pulled him closer. Pressing his cheek against Kyle's red hair, he inhaled and sighed tiredly.

"Sorry. I'm really glad to see you; you have no idea of how much. I'd love for nothing more than to just drag you away from here and put you in a safe so you wouldn't be able to leave me even if you wanted to, but as you can see," he gestured toward the battles going on around them, "This really isn't the time."

"I know, I know." Kyle smiled back at him despite everything and pulled him closer. "I can't believe you're alive."

"I can't believe you are either. Fuck, I don't think it's worked its way into my brain yet," Stan muttered into the top of his head, making the hair in his neck rise. "It's as if you're just waiting for me to let you go so you can disappear for another six years."

"I won't," Kyle promised, then gasped horrified as a thought resurfaced in his mind. "Jesus Christ, Ike! I forgot about him. He's out there somewhere, I need to find him!"

He almost threw himself out through the shield and would have set off to find his brother within the second had it not been for Stan's hand, which quickly encircled his wrist to make sure that he didn't get anywhere.

"No!" Stan barked, surprising both Kyle and himself with his harsh, cold tone. "Sorry," he apologized, embarrassed but now with a softer tone. "I didn't mean it like that. Of course we'll find your brother, it's just - don't just run out there. Here, attach this to your belt."

Stan fished up a thing that looked exactly like the one fastened to his own, consisting of one single big blue button and with a small, black pin to its side.

"It's as simple as it looks," Stan said with a half-heartened smile when it clicked into place. "Press it once and it's on, press it twice, and it's off. Stay away from the black pin, that's a self-destruction thing; works like a grenade. Butters says that we should rather let them blow up than let Cartman get them, if we are left with a choice."

"I see."

Kyle pressed down on the button and watched as a blue bubble appeared inside of the one they already stood in, making the world twice as blue as before.

"Good. I've got plenty of these projectors, we'll hand them out as we make our way. Let's find your brother."

Kyle smiled when he felt the fingers hug his hand tighter. Feeling that Stan wasn't quite finished yet, he stayed put and waited patiently, even if his feet itched with the need to go and find his lost little brother.

Stan must have felt his urge and scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand, something he always did when he felt uncomfortable. "Listen, if anything should happen, I just want you to know that I – I love you. Still. I never stopped."

A warm feeling spread from his toes and up to his cheeks, probably making them red in the process. Stan looked different and talked differently, but he was still the boy Kyle had cornered behind the gym so many years ago.

"You know, that's kinda gay."

"Yeah, I know.

"But still, I love you."

"I know that too."

Rolling his eyes, Kyle pulled him closer by his green collar and crashed their lips together, ignoring the surprised squeak coming from Stan.

It was awkward and far from the best kiss they'd ever had, not too surprising considering the long time without practice, but he didn't mind at all. It was as if all the pieces finally fell together, making him whole. He finally had his Stan with him, alive and kicking. Sometimes, it was good to do things the Hollywood-style as well.

Hot hands fell back on his cheeks, and he shivered as fingertips buried themselves in his hair. Distantly, he wondered if Wendy and the others had left to finish off the soldiers, or if they were still watching them.

But all such thoughts were literally erased from his mind when he felt teeth nipping on his lower lip.

When they pulled away, he honestly couldn't force the grin away from his features. His hands fell from Stan and he took a few steps back, separating their protecting layers.

"Come on then, Han Solo," he said with a wink, "Let's free our men from the empire."

"Sounds good to me. I'd say that Craig and the others are way ahead of us though."

Stan nodded against the clearing that now was filled with blue spheres. More and more of them continued to pop up. Those that had managed to get a hold of one quickly found those that hadn't and pulled them close, possibly saving their lives.

The soldiers clearly weren't expecting such a turnabout. Confused, they didn't seem to know what to do and managed to off people belonging to their own side. And yet, no one left, not a single soldier fled the field, even though they must know that their chance of survival was minimalistic. La Resistance remained out of loyalty to their fellow men, but that surely wasn't the soldiers' reason. They didn't care who they shot at and weren't above taking cover behind those they should consider their comrades.

Kyle tried to understand them, to see a pattern, but he didn't. In one way, they seemed desperate to save their own skin, but in another they seemed to have no problem sacrificing their own. For Fatass. How could they be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for someone lower than a bug? To him, it made no sense at all.

He looked at them; saw how a man realized that his rifle was done for only to turn to the guy next to him, swing his weapon at his head, then strip the corpse of its gun.

An eye for an eye makes the world go blind, he knew that. What he didn't know was why he did it. He didn't have a relation to any of the men and perhaps the perpetrator had a valid reason for his actions; the other man might have made his life in the army a living hell or slept with his wife, or perhaps the murderer was just scared. Still, Kyle felt a sting of grim satisfaction when he picked up the weapon he'd lost earlier and used it to take the man down.

When he withdrew his gaze from the man that was now lying on the ground, his body still twitching, he looked to his side, at Stan who had engulfed Bebe and a girl he didn't recognize into his bubble and taught them how the projectors worked. The unknown girl sat on the ground with tears falling heavily down her cheeks, but she hanged on to his every word. She was in a great deal of pain, that much was obvious by the twisted face she made, and only intensified by the red stain that slowly grew on the leg of her pants. Still, she did as she was told and took the gun that was offered her with a solemn nod. After giving her shoulder a sympathetic pat, Stan exchanged a few words with Bebe before he stood up. When he left them, Kyle saw that Bebe took a seat by the girl, back to back, ready to cover one side as long as the injured girl handled the other. In short, they had each other's behinds covered.

After leaving the women to their own, Stan ran back up to him. With a curt nod, Kyle took off, leading the way to where he had seen his brother the last time. It wasn't far; all they had to do was to climb the hill he had tumbled down earlier. Around them, rebels were now streaming down, all of them inside of a protecting egg of blue light. Still, there was no sign of either Ike or Filmore.

Kyle frowned; he knew that they should be somewhere near him. He recognized the bushes that hid the entrance to La Resistance's headquarter.

"Ike!" He called out, but no one answered.

Looking around franticly, all he could spot was the concerned face belonging to one of their comrades who had heard his cry, and joined up with them in their searching.

"Skoda," Geo, the grey young woman from earlier in the hallway, called out and waved them over, apparently not knotting what to call Kyle. He wasn't even sure that she knew what his real name was. "I've found something."

It could be discussed whether she'd found the lack of something rather than something. Geo had located the bushes in which Ike and Filmore had taken refuge, but the only trace left of them was the grass that had been colored red by, hopefully only Filmore's, blood. Ike was nowhere to be seen, and so was Filmore's body.

"Do you think it's Ike's?" The girl asked softly and poked at the dirt with the barrel. At first, he didn't say a thing, knowing very well that he might just break the girl's heart should he tell her the truth. Still, it would find its way to her sooner or later, so he might just as well give her an honest answer.

"No, that's O'Donnell's," He said in a tired voice.

Her face turned to him, her face pale as a ghost's. With her eyes, she begged him to explain, and he obeyed, keeping it as short as he could.

"He was shot and bled to death. His body was here and so was Ike. Sorry."

"I see," she mumbled and lowered her head. "I'll get out there, then, and do what I can. Find Ike and get him a shield, won't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hill with her AK tight in her grip.

Stan and Kyle looked after her as she took down one soldier after another, not minding the tears that fell freely from her eyes. She mourned the loss of a dear friend, but was still collected enough to understand that this was not the time to break. Using her despair as fuel, she made sure that Filmore's death was not for nothing.

"C'mon." Stan tugged lightly at his sleeve. "He's probably just getting Filmore's body out of here. We should go down there and make ourselves useful, don't you think?"

Kyle nodded. Yeah, that was probably it. He could very well picture Ike dragging Filmore's body away to make sure it wasn't desecrated by Fatass's men.

The clearing was no longer green, rather red and grey from the fallen soldiers and their spilt blood. Their number had decreased since the appearance of the shields, and they were down to barely a quarter of their original number now that the rebels dared to move without other precaution than the blue fields. The whole thing took a turn against the ways of hunting and defending that belonged on the African savannah. The predators circled their prey, who had formed a layer protecting their precious cub, the Fatass.

One by one, the protecting circle lessened and even thought they still couldn't see Fatass, they felt excitement at the prospect of ridding the world of him once and for all. Then, the megaphone they had heard earlier was turned on.

"_Cease fire immediately, or else you will come to regret it gravely."_

The voice was so authoritative; they didn't have much choice but to do as it said. Reluctantly, the rebels lowered their weapons, but their shields staid up as they eyed the soldiers, all whom looked nonplussed.

"_Good. Now, I must admit that this didn't quite go as I planned, and I am willing to make you a deal." _

The soldiers cleared a path and suddenly sharp inhalations were heard from La Resistance's members. In the middle of the circle stood he, the Fatass himself, self-proclaimed emperor of a grand part of the planet, in all of his glory. At the moment, it wasn't much; a uniform that screamed of military power and with hair blowing in the wind. But even in a situation when they all actually considered him a weak enemy, his appearance made many of them shudder. They knew him, knew what he had done and what he could do, perhaps not everything but enough to make them frightened. The fact that ten of their comrades laid by his feet, seemingly beaten and wearing blindfolds, did nothing to soften their unease.

"These men are your fellows, your coworkers, your sisters and," Fatass turned his glittering eyes against Kyle with a smirk, having removed the megaphone and let it fall to the ground, "Your brothers. Let me go, and I'll give them to you. You may even execute my men, if you doubt my honesty."

Kyle's eyes darted between the incarnation of Satan and the man closest to his feet. Even if he had only known his older form for a few hours, there was no way he'd forget Ike's appearance, even if it was by Fatass' feet with Filmore's body next to him.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe and fell to his knees where he had stood only seconds earlier. How could he look so calm, so evil even when knowing that this might be the end of his life? He wanted Fatass to cry, to scream and to look at him with fear in a way he had never allowed himself to. He wanted him to die. But he wasn't willing to sacrifice his brother for that wish.

"FUCK YOU, FATASS!" screamed Kyle, his voice nearly hoarse from those few words. "YOU'RE THE VILEST, MOST DESPICABLE, DISGUSTING CREATURE I COULD EVER IMAGINE! WHY WON'T YOU JUST FUCKING DIE, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF B-"

His infuriated ramblings were cut short by Stan who had kneeled beside him and covered his mouth with his hands.

"Hush!" he snapped. "You don't want them killed just because you let your mouth wander a little bit too far. You're voicing all of our thoughts, but do you want to lose your brother just because you couldn't control your anger? If he thinks that we're going to kill him, then they are toast."

Kyle fell silent and was forced to settle with glaring at the man who held his brother's life in his hands. Fatass didn't seem bothered by the glares; in fact, he seemed highly amused by the Jewish man's show of temper.

Kenny took a step forward, calling on everyone's attention. Somehow, he had gone against his nature and managed to not get killed, and now used the seat of power he possessed as their leader.

"Long time no see, McCormick," Fatass said, still smirking.

Kenny was not impressed.

"Not long enough, Cartman," he spat out, enraged. "Give us our men and get the hell out of here before we send a bullet to your head, regardless of the consequences."

Fatass didn't move, but his eyes shifted from Kenny and back to Kyle and Stan, who looked at him with cold, hateful eyes.

"Well, that's good, but I am afraid that there is something else I want, something you stole from me." His smile widened. "If you want your friends alive, I am afraid that you are forced to give back my Jew."

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Yay, another cliff-hanger! Bet you couldn't see that coming, could you? He he, god, I'm lame.

Oh, and the summary is changed! Just so you know.


	9. Longing for What was Lost

Hello, guys and gals!

God, I sound like my uncle.

Anyhow, the A/N was too long, so you can find it at the bottom, along with the responses to the reviews and a link to another picture. Hope you'll like the chapter!

Thanks for betaing for me, Elbereth Gilthoniel! What would I do without you?

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Chapter IX – Longing for What was Lost

_Three years earlier._

_Kenny crept up closer to the main entrance of the headquarters. It had rained all day__,__ and the strong wind had made it impossible to escape the cold wetness; the evil little drops had forced their way between the leaves on the tree he had been hiding beneath__,__ and he wouldn't be surprised if he had caught pneumonia. With the knowledge that Cartman could be absolutely anywhere, he had been forced to spend the entire day waiting for the nightfall; only in the darkness of the night did he dare to move toward his goal._

_Kenny might have been a man of risks and impulses once, but he would not have the blood of his fellows on his hands. They were dirty enough as it was._

"_It wouldn't be very fair if I died of illness the same day I got back," he muttered to himself as he made his way over the soggy clearing. The mud made a disgusting noise as he stepped in it, adding to the injustice of it all. "But fuck it all, it wouldn't be very surprising."_

_He pushed aside the foliage that covered the great pair of metal doors and knocked heavily on one of them. Nothing happened. After the fifteenth time he knocked, he started cursing and kicking at it, all for nothing. They knew that he came back during the night, why hadn't they put a guard on duty or something? It was only for a few days, for goodness sake, and all they had to do was to drag their sleeping bag over to the entrance. He was supposed to be their leader. Didn't he at least deserve that much? _

_When he had banged on the doors for at least forty-five minutes, he heard distant steps echoing on the other side. The barricade was good at preventing the sound from leaking out, so he could only hear it as he pressed his ear to the metal. A few seconds later, a small window was opened__,__ and a blue iris stared straight into his. He could hear a startled gasp and mere seconds later, the doors sprung opened._

_Wendy stood on the other side, wearing a pajama that was very modest, but still flattering enough to reveal that Token was a very lucky man._

"_Kenny!" She jumped into his arms and hugged him tightly, not caring about the pouring rain. "We thought you were dead, where have you been?"_

"_Dead, obviously," Kenny said with a smile, feeling better now that he wasn't alone in the cold darkness. "Why weren't you expecting me?"_

"_We were." Wendy's face grew solemn. "We waited and waited, but after three weeks we were forced to give up. You were assumed dead for real this time, and we couldn't have people sleeping in the hallways forever."_

"_Three weeks? How long have I been dead?"_

_Usually, he was only away for a few days, two weeks tops, but judging by Wendy's reaction, he had been missing for much longer than that._

"_Six weeks," she said with a sigh, with her arms still around his shoulders. "I picked up the thread where you left it, just as we discussed, but you've got big shoes, and they're hard to fill. Hope's been low. If even our immortal man can't make it, how could we hope to? And Stan, well, he got depressed when you died, I think you know why, and then it only got worse when you didn't come back. It's harder on him than on most; every time you die, it's as if he loses two friends."_

_Right, the whole _You bastards!-_thing that had been carved into their brains as children and now was more of a habit than something that required thought. Every time he died anywhere near Stan, he shouted his part of it, but Kyle wasn't around to take the second._

_Fuck._

"_Yeah," Wendy agreed with his thought, able to read his mind as always. "I better be off to bed, otherwise chances are that Token will suspect that I passed out in the bathroom. Again. Go check on Stan before hitting the sack, would you? I think he's still sleeping, but I doubt he'd mind it."_

_She hugged him tightly one last time, then yawned and left for her husband. Kenny couldn't help the amused smile that quirked his lips. Wendy never gave up on anyone, and she hadn't given up on him, that much was obvious. The look in her eyes, albeit a bit surprised, said more "_Welcome back"_ than "_You're supposed to be dead."

"_And Kenny, try not to die so often, if not for your own sake then at least for Stan's. You're all he's got left."_

_He nodded. It wasn't as if he ever sought out death, but he had to admit that he could be more careful than he was. Being immortal had that effect on people. Still, he hated making other people sad, at least those that were his friends and especially Stan. Wendy was right, as always. He should try to avoid death more than he currently was; there was no need to remind Stan of what he had lost. Wendy was a smart girl and his respect for her ran deeply._

_But, he couldn't help but noticing as she walked away from him, she had a very delectable ass too. _

Present time, 2030.

It was as if the temperature had gone below zero in mere seconds. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe and every inhalation hurt his throat.

Not sure whether he should laugh or cry, Kyle's mouth fell open but emitted no sound. The first impulse told him to run, run away as far from the smirking monster as he could before it was too late. Sadly, he was too much of a human to dismiss those lying on the ground.

You can't do this to us, his mind cried. Damn you, Fatass, we should have won. We should have ended it! We were so close!

Sadly, his thoughts didn't matter; the situation didn't change. The facts still remained, blatantly ignoring his desperate want for it to be otherwise.

Stan next to him almost fell over when he heard the demand, but managed to stay standing. Viciously, he pulled Kyle closer and glared at Fatass with eyes practically burning, leaving no doubt of what he would have done, had he been alone with the Fatso.

Too upset to form a coherent sentence, only managing to spit out a bunch of nonsense, Stan's attempts of protesting went by unheard, but the people around them got the message.

He fell silent as two pale fingers were pressed to his lips. With begging eyes he looked up at Kyle, who couldn't quite meet them and removed his hand, embarrassed.

Fleeing the accusing eyes of his best friend, Kyle turned to the person who had become the symbol of authority in the small community that was La Résistance.

Kenny was once again in centre of everyone's attention, looking as if he would have welcomed death for once. The blond man's posture had gone rigid and his face was blank, apart from the eyes that darted between those on the ground and Kyle, who stared at him with wide eyes.

Then his face fell, and the internal pain was clear on his features. Kyle could imagine that he had been forced to rank certain lives above others before, but not this blatant. It was a dark side to all kinds of military force. Of course, they all strived to achieve minimal damage to their own troops, but sometimes you had to weigh out the loss and the gain. Was a captain worth more than one of his soldiers? If yes, then how about two of his soldiers, or three?

The choice Kenny faced was probably remarkably harder since he, Kyle, was considered as more than just a rebel, but also a good friend.

"I-" Kenny turned to the smirking monster that hadn't moved a muscle as he watched the internal battles going on inside the rebels' heads, "That is not something for me to decide. It's not my place. I'm sorry, Kyle, but I'm handing this ball over to you."

He truly did look sorry, but Kyle was too emotionally exhausted to feel sorry for him. Besides, he deserved it for forcing Kyle to make a decision no man should ever be required to make.

He didn't want to die; it was as simple as that, but at the same time, it wasn't. But what frightened him more than the thought of death was the possibility of returning to his rooms; to the bed that might still remember the heat coming off his body as he slept. He didn't want that bed or anything else that had belonged to the life he'd led only days earlier. He wanted it all to burn before his eyes, to see the dark smoke rise against a clear sky, until there was nothing left of it but ashes.

But no. He had a duty and a right as an older brother to make sure that nothing bad happened to his little brother, to Ike. He had failed miserably; not only had he been absent for six years, Ike had been forced to carry his burden while he was missing, but without the tools Kyle actually had. This burden had scarred him and his ego badly, and this very night, Ike had lost his best friend and was in that very moment by the feet of death himself. There was no way he would let Ike die because of him and his cowardice.

Slowly, he turned to Stan, who stared at him fearfully.

"I'm so glad that you're alive, and that I got to see you," he whispered softly.

It was just one of those moments where it felt oddly inappropriate to speak in a tone louder than a mumble.

Stan wasn't stupid, and he knew him well enough to know what it meant. As Kyle made a move to stand up, he grabbed both of his arms and kept him down.

"No!" he whispered heatedly, his pupils contracted, and Kyle was forced to keep bite his lip to keep a cry from slipping out; Stan's hands practically crushed his muscles. "You can't do that. I won't let you!"

"Stan…"

"Please."

"I'm sorry."

Not able to stand the heartbreak he knew was written over the other man's face, he gently shook the hands off of him and stood. For a moment, that was all he could do. Then he bent down and kissed Stan's forehead before straightening his back. Stan didn't react; he simply stared dimly at the small spot of flattened grass he had sat on.

Kyle turned away from him and forced his legs to move forward. Every step felt sluggish and heavy, and it felt as if the ground was trying to drag him down. His body wanted to follow; it was as if it knew where it was going and strongly disagreed with his mind, trying its hardest to make sure that it didn't get anywhere. Still, he moved forward with one step at the time.

During the walk over to Kenny, a walk that seemed endless but in reality only was slightly above thirty feet, no one made a sound. Everything he could hear was his own ragged breathing and his furiously beating heart. By the time he finally reached his destination, he felt more tired than he had when he passed out in the truck.

Kenny looked him over, worriedly and prepared to offer a supporting shoulder should it be needed. He along with the bystanders understood how Kyle had chosen, even if he had yet to voice his decision out loud.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he muttered grimly as the redhead came up by his side. Kyle laughed dryly.

"Kenny, I can honestly say that this is about the last thing I want right now." His dull eyes met the blonde's. "But I don't really have a choice."

"I guess not."

Kenny's eyes wandered over to Ike's form, and he couldn't repress the shudder that went through his body. Kyle didn't know if it was because he feared for one of his men, Ike himself as a friend or if he imagined that it was his own little sister Karen out there on the grass, but Kenny didn't take too lightly on Ike's situation either.

The blond man cleared his throat, getting rid of eventual traces on sentimentality that he shouldn't show Fatass.

"We have made our decision. We'll make a trade; you release our hostage and we'll give you Kyle."

"NO!"

"NO!"

At first he thought it was an echo, that Stan was the only one who called, but when Fatass buried a steel clad boot into Ike's side, he knew that was not the case. He came close to leaping forward, wanting to tear off that leg from the godforsaken body it was attached to, but Kenny stopped him.

"Don't. You'll die, and then they'll die; it's pointless."

Despite the calm and reasoning words, Kenny practically snarled as he spoke.

"A wise decision, my friend, a wise decision," Fatass said when things had calmed down, mocking every sense of the word 'friend', and the son of a bitch knew it.

"I stopped being your friend when I was twelve, Cartman!" Kenny spat. "Now let them go!"

"That is not how this is going to work, McCormick. I can give you five now and remaining five when the Jew is back where he belongs." Kyle's hands clenched into tight fists when he was mentioned. He was discussed as a piece of furniture or as a pet behaving badly! "You will send him over or walk him over, do as you wish, but he will cast his shield aside. I cannot have him wearing that when we are leaving, after all. Ten of my men will come with me as I depart and make sure that no harm comes to my person. We will leave in my helicopter and will not hear from each other again. Well, until next time, at least."

"If you want Kyle, then you'll have to take me with you as well."

Stan's voice rang clear and loud in the clearing as he stepped up to his old friends. Kyle knew that he should be furious for Stan's meaningless sacrifice, and indeed he was; he was surprised that he didn't use his bottled up anger to beat the idiocy out of the stupid man. But when the warm hand slipped into his own, a joy spread throughout his body. Stan would be with him until the end; a thought that both offered comfort and made him hate himself.

"I have no issues regarding this slight change of plans," Fatass said, seemingly amused by the events playing out before him.

Still, there was something dark in his eyes that twinkled as he watched them, something that made Kyle quickly look away and squeeze Stan's hand, fishing for reassurance. He found it as Stan responded by tightening his hold.

Then it was time.

"You go first, Cartman!" Kenny called, his voice loud against the quietness of the woods. "Release them!"

"So very typical for your kind; always going for speed rather than quality."

He mocked them, but gestured for his men to untie five of those on the ground, leaving both Ike and Filmore. Kyle wondered if they even knew that Filmore was dead and not simply passed out. Then he remembered the big red-brown stain that had spread over Filmore's chest. There was no way they could have missed it; they simply counted on that the rebels weren't aware of it.

Three men and two women were hauled to their feet, and pushed, slightly disoriented, forward by Fatass' men. The soldiers watched them coldly as they stumbling made their way toward their comrades, who while they didn't dare fetch them, waited for them and let them into their protective spheres, then pulled back.

There was something very off about the soldiers. Fatass was about to throw their lives away as if they were nothing more than dirt rags, but they still remained loyal to him. Hadn't he just made it clear how worthless they were to him?

"Now it is your turn," Fatass said, still entertained by the situation as a whole.

The three men glared at him, but they all knew what had to be done. Kenny was about to step forward, leading them, but never did. After a moment of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around his old friends and hugged them tightly.

"This sucks, dudes. Big time," he muttered. "Two days ago I had none of you with me, and now I do, I have to give you up again."

"It fucking blows," Kyle couldn't help but add.

"Totally," Stan agreed, much to his friends' amusement.

Kyle chuckled and leaned his forehead onto Kenny's shoulder. A long time had passed since they had done something like this, seeking solace within each other, all three of them. His arm found its way up to Kenny's back and pulled him closer, enjoying the moment while he still could.

Even if they tried to ignore it, it was time to break apart. If they were deemed to draw things out, there was nothing that said that Fatass couldn't take it out on one of his hostages. He knew, just as well as his old-time playmates, that as long as he had Ike, he had Kyle.

And so they turned and as one and begun their march, grudgingly accepting the card fate dealt them. With Kenny's hand on his shoulder and Stan's hand in his own, Kyle felt both stronger and weaker than ever before. Kenny was the only of them who still carried a shield, which reached out and partly covered him as well. It was a strange thing; he saw the world through different eyes. One side was as dark and harsh as ever, where pools of red blood shone bright in the moonlight, a rich contrast against the pale faces of the soldiers.

But on the other side, the blue light was like a film that made the world less horrifying. The blood looked like puddles of water and the dead no longer seemed as lifeless compared to those still standing. It even softened the expressions of the faces around him; they didn't look quite as horrified or cold.

Why wasn't he surprised when Fatass looked exactly the same on both sides?

Unexpectedly, Stan interrupted his thoughts with a humorless laughter. When he looked up, he saw that the eyes weren't looking at him, but at Kenny.

"'One for all and all for one,' that doesn't seem to be very accurate right now."

The words were bitter, but not accusing. A mere statement of unfortunate circumstances.

"It's easier to speak of an action than to actually perform it, especially when there's a barrel against a head that isn't yours."

Kenny and Stan looked at each other, silently speaking of things Kyle had been away too long to completely understand. He had had his reunions, fist with Kenny and then later with Stan, but the two of them had faced each other for the first time in over two weeks and were already forced to say goodbye. As Kenny had said; he had barely time to grasp that Stan was alive until he had to let them go.

Then he stood before him, barely ten feet away, smiling in a way that would have Satan look away.

Suddenly, Kyle realized that for the first time in ten years, their little gang was complete. The last time they had seen each other, all four of them, had been in Stan's basement where they had been playing Okama Gamesphere, just like when they had when they were just kids. Whoever had claimed that children got fat because of videogames was wrong; they jumped around and flung themselves to the side without a break for several hours. Soon, the basement had been smelling foul and been disturbingly warm, but they never took their eyes of the screen. When Sharon had finally had enough, she had sent the visiting boys home and Stan to his bed. He had protested, of course, what eighteen-year old wouldn't? But a mother was a mother and her word was law.

The next day, there were only three of them playing.

In a fluid motion, Fatass raised his left hand and snapped with his fingers. Four men with blank faces immediately moved, as if their minds were one with his. They roughly shoved Kenny to the side, not sparing him a glance as they did so, on their way to reach Stan and Kyle.

Two of them grasped Kyle by the arms, the other two took Stan. Unceremoniously, their intertwined hands were yanked apart, and they were pulled to the side. Other men grabbed the hostages and dragged them away from the two men who were still facing each other.

Leader to leader, face to face, one of them considerably more satisfied with the exchange than the other. The bond they had shared when they were young, a default friendship as Kyle and Stan clearly favored each other, was long lost.

"Kenny!" The blond man winced by the sound of the unexpected call. Ike had lost his blindfold, and was terrified of what was happening. "Please, don't let them take him! God only knows what they'll do to him!"

"Shut up, Ike!" Kyle called from the other side, glaring at his brother.

Didn't Ike understand that he was saving his life? Or perhaps that was exactly what he did, and maybe Ike was trying to do the same thing for him. Well, he thought, feeling his muscles tense, that was not going to happen. Not only was he not going to allow it, he doubted that Fatass would either. The deal was made, irreversible, set in stone. He gave up not only his life but also Stan's, albeit reluctantly, the least the brat could do was being grateful.

As he predicted, Ike's words held no significance to the Fatass, who looked upon Ike with disinterest, then turned back to Kenny, who held his head lowered. He probably couldn't stand looking at Ike, Kyle, Stan or the fatso, so all that was left was the ground.

"Well then, this is the end," Fatass said, declaring their little meeting as over. "I will take what belongs to me and leave. I hope I see you again; it was a pleasure doing business with you, Kenneh."

He made fun of him again, using not only Kenny's given name but also showing that no matter how much they might wish otherwise, there would always be a connection between them. It was something they utterly despised, but they all knew it was there and as disgusting as it was, both sides used it in the attempt of getting rid of the other.

Kenny's head suddenly flew back up, and he grinned at Fatass in a way Kyle had never seen on his face before. He was glad he hadn't; he almost had a heart attack. Something dark rested over smiling man's features, something dark that made his eyes look as black as the night sky above. And, as bizarre as it was, Kenny looked completely calm and at peace.

"Not quite right, Cartman. This is the end, but the only thing you're taking with you is me."

He flung something small over his shoulder as he leaped at the bigger man, the shield suddenly gone, and by the time he reached him, he had three bullets in his back.

"OH MY GOD, YOU KILLED KENNY!"

"YOU BASTARDS!"

Still, Kenny must have used his last bit of strength to cling tightly onto his enemy, who stumbled backward and fell down on the ground, for the first time looking both fearful and shocked at the sudden attack. He tried to tear away the arms and legs, which stubbornly refused to give in, even in death.

Kyle glanced down to the ground by his feet, searching for whatever it was Kenny had thrown. His heart skipped a beat.

It should have been hard to see it in the darkness, but there it was, lying innocently on the grass. A small, black pin.

"GET DOWN!"

He didn't know who yelled the order, hell, he might even have done it himself, but that was irrelevant. After stomping on one of his captors' feet and taking a swing to the face of the other, he tore himself free and landed on the ground with his arms cowering himself. He heard Stan land less than a second after him, and saw how the freed rebels copied their actions.

For a second there was only silence. Then it happened.

The grenade exploded.

The explosion had the ground under them shaking, and he felt the body of a soldier fall down upon him, thrown off by the strong force. A wave of intense heat washed over him, it burned his arms and was accompanied by a bright, white flash that blinded him, even if he had his head buried in the trampled ground.

Then it stilled, for a moment, there was absolute silence, but it was soon disrupted by the sound of hundreds of men screaming. It wasn't the rebels; it wasn't shouts of joy and victory. No, the screaming came from the soldiers who all fell to their knees, clutching their heads and cried out their pain. Not the pain of being defeated or of losing a cherished leader, but plain, physical pain. They sounded like animals burning to death, and were scratching at the skin of their faces, drawing blood. It seemed as if they were trying to remove their brains from the rest of their bodies.

Slowly, the screaming died out and the soldiers fell to the ground one by one, their eyes glazed over and staring far off in the distance.

Kyle hadn't been able to handle the desperate screeching and howls of unimaginable pain; he had tried to block everything out, pressing his hands so hard against his head that he thought it might crack. He almost wished it had, then he would no longer be aware of the dead body on top of him.

Someone must have heard his silent prayers; the weight on top of him was carefully pushed aside, and he was pulled into a gentle embrace by strong, loving arms. His own hands came up and clutched onto the back of Stan's shirt, almost tearing it apart in the process. Stan smelled wrong, he smelled of the blood and flesh Kyle knew covered them both. Kenny was smart; he had pressed himself up tight against Fatass to make sure that the two of them took the blow, and they had. The explosion had been limited to them and them alone, but it had been a high price to pay; all that was left of them was random bits and pieces lying on the ground, looking pathetic.

It started soft, but soon grew in intensity. All over the clearing, people were sobbing and crying openly. Kyle didn't notice the tears streaming down his face as first, nor did he notice the wetness that appeared on his shoulder, but it was hard to ignore when he found that he had trouble breathing.

"Kyle?"

A small voice caught his attention. Ike had crawled over to them, just as crimson as the rest on them. His mind was malfunctioning, but it didn't stop him from hauling his little brother close, letting him in on their moment of weakness.

He sat there on the ground, tinted red by blood and reeking of copper, with his brother's head pressed against his chest and with his own buried in Stan's neck.

It was over, they had won. Fatass was dead and would never come back. He was finally free.

So why couldn't he stop crying?

* * *

Story ain't over yet, folks!

A picture of Kenny, and I dare say that this drawing is better than the last one I put up; lotsofdarkroses . deviantart . com / art / Set-in-Stone-It-Ends-Here-119087346

Lovely Jew: Glad you liked it! ^^ And yes, you may curse as much as you want, I think it's funny, but if you use words that are too bad for this site, FF will just censor you. Poopers. 'Sides, Cartman deserves it, don't you think? ^^

Animegrl421: I'm a wanna-be-author, m'dear. I channel my sadistic drives into torturing my readers instead of letting these drives control me in real life.

Syntic: Life isn't fair, sweetie, especially not in South Park. Believe it or not, but I'm not a fan of war movies or fics myself, and I can barely stand the games. So I don't know why I'm doing this. :S

Hope your ass feels better now and thank you for reviewing!

Anon(ymous?): A leash? Now that's an idea! *grin*

Quillofdestiny: Aw, man! When you can't see the future, you see the present. *pout* Yeah, that's ze Mole, we'll see more of him in the next chapter. Ooh, lookie, a fill-in-the-blanks! I always did like those. ^^

Gecko Osco: I'm glad you like it, and thank you for reviewing. ^^ I recently found a story called "that future thing", but that's all I've found that shares this concept. But I'm fairly new here, so I'd love it if you could give me the name or names of the stories. :)

Toodles, people!


	10. Remembering the Past

Last chapter before the epilogue, my dears!

_Lovely Jew:_ I got excited too, when I got the email with your review. Kenny has a special place in my heart, he's like a flower that's broken through the asfalt and bloom in the middle of the road. Your optimism and eagerness brightens my world!  
_thequillofdestiny_: The end finds us all in the…uh…end? Lame wording, meknows. Now it has truly come, but I can promise you that this isn't the last you've heard of me! BTW, I think Kenny and Wendy have a kind of chemistry, you know? Well, there's a chemistry between Kenny and anyone, really…  
_Animegrl421:_ Your wish is my command, sweetie! No more cliffhangers, for cereal! *cough* in this story *cough*  
_Forgotten. Thirteen:_ Thou aereth not forgotten! Or something. I suck at Shakespearian, but you get the point. I'm glad you found the time to read this story, and I'm even happier that you liked it!  
_syntic_: You had me grinning for a day and a night when you told me that you caught that! I was hoping that someone would, since it, as silly as it may sound, was a part that meant a lot to me. And you made me catch an error I had missed, thank you for that as well! ^^

* * *

Chapter X – Remembering the Past

_Two years earlier_

"_Don't you die on me, you worthless scumbag," Bebe muttered as she tended to the injured man lying unconscious on a bad that used to be white._

_When Bebe was still a little girl, it had been her dream to be either a doctor or a nurse. It wasn't the wage that encouraged her in her persuasion; as a matter of fact, many nurses were underpaid and in all honesty, she would prefer being a nurse before a doctor. A doctor was always busy and running back and forth between the sick and injured, but nurses had the time to sit down and talk to the patient. At least, that was what she had gathered, spending half of her life at Hell's Pass, either in a sickbed herself or visiting one or several of her classmates. _

_More than money, Bebe liked helping others. While she wasn't as obsessed with the well-being of just about every living creature on the planet as Wendy was, she still cared about the people close to her and wanted them to feel good, both physically and emotionally. When it came to the affair of illegal fishing of tuna, she didn't give a damn as long as the price per can still was reasonable._

_Still, this wasn't exactly what she had had in mind when she had become the medic in their organization. Oh, she knew that she was lucky; as good as anyone who entered the hospital ward eventually left it. However, to a girl who had dreamt of comforting a wrinkly, old woman, telling her everything would be fine, the act of cleaning up gunshot wounds or sewing legs and arms back onto torsos seemed rather gruesome._

_At times like these, she didn't even have her heart in her work. It was different when it was her friends or other members of La Résistance, but the man lying in front of her, struggling for his life, was one of Cartman's soldiers. She hardly found the energy to help him; but she had been asked by Kenny to keep him alive. He would be questioned, Kenny had said. Bebe didn't know what they would ask him, but she was fairly sure that they wouldn't get any answers. Somehow, the men working for Cartman had a bizarre fondness of their leader, a fondness none of them could understand. _

_Maybe it was the cause of that unconditional love they sought; they knew basically what it was, but not how. If that was the case, she sure hoped that they'd manage to get what they wanted. Even if she wasn't a major figure on the battle field, she had still seen Cartman's soldiers enough times to be intrigued by them and the way they seemed to place their own lives rather low on their list of priorities. _

_Yet, she thought as she frowned when checking the bandage on the man's head, which had already taken on a pinkish color, if they needed them alive, they should have the decency to turn them in at least half so. The man had taken a, well, maybe not a shot but something like it, to his head and had lost a bit of his skull. The brain, be it a wondrous thing that gave them the miracle of thinking and whatnot, looked pretty disgusting in the state it was._

"_Aren't the brains supposed to be, like, grey or something?" _

_Flinching with a used scalpel in your hand is a really foolish thing. Fortunately, Bebe had become accustomed to the occasional interruptions, usually by Wendy, Stan or Kenny. Lately, even Craig, the ass that had tried to scare her, had taken up the habit of walking straight into her ward without a word of precaution. The way he eyed her medical cabinet had long ago made her draw the conclusion that he was after the alcohol. Well, tough luck, that shit was for her patients._

_Besides, it tasted god awful._

"_Yes, well, they are, if they're not covered with blood, that is."_

"_They look gross," Craig commented plainly and came to stand by the shorter side of the bed; close enough to see the exposed organ, but not close enough the disturb her in her work._

_Biting her tongue to keep back the childish remark "Well, so do you!" Bebe went back to her work. Craig was simply one of those persons that could piss her off even when they weren't trying. It might be his nonchalant and arrogant attitude, his lack of human emotion other than anger and bitterness, or the fact that every other time she glanced up at him, he flipped her off._

_Yet even if she at times wanted nothing more than to just slit his throat in a sinister reenactment of the pig hunting in _Lord of the Flies_, he had been her classmate and grown up by her side. Whether she wanted it or not, Craig was her friend, and there was little she could do about it. _

_Of course, just because he was her friend it didn't mean that she had to _like_ him._

_For a while they just continued with what they were doing; she was stitching up a wound in the injured man's chest while he stood by, watching silently. The lack of action was enough to make her temporarily forget about him and get lost in her work, until he interrupted her again._

"_What's that sound?"_

_Annoyed at the additional interruption, Bebe looked up and glared at him half-heartedly. _

"_What do you mean? What sound?"_

"_Quiet, just listen. It's soft, but it's there."_

_At first, she had just assumed that he was screwing with her, but the intense and befuddled look on his face told her otherwise. After coming to the conclusion that, if nothing else, she'd at least have the opportunity of straightening her back for a while, she stood straight and listened attentively._

_The sick ward was completely silent. There were no patients at the moment, and it was located in the back of their underground network of tunnels, in order to keep it calm and quiet for the patients. The only sound was that of two people breathing._

_No, she frowned at the sudden discovery, that wasn't true. There was a soft sound, just as Craig had said, and it came back with even intervals. Her eyes locked with Craig's and in unison, they looked down at the unconscious man._

_Carefully, Bebe lowered her head so that she was in the same level as the man on the table. Experienced fingers trembled as they slowly removed the bandage from the soldier's head._

"_It's stronger here," she whispered softly, and it was true. Now that she was searching for it, she could easily find it and notice a change in its intensity. _

_Finding the box containing disposable gloves, she ripped out a pair and slipped them on her hands, an action she did often enough to do it without looking. The bile rose in her throat as she removed hair that stuck to the open wound. It was disgusting, absolutely vile, but she didn't have much choice. Warily, the young woman let her plastic covered hands slip over the slimy surface, until she found what she was looking for._

"_Get Ike!" she barked at Craig, who looked anything but happy with being ordered around. "It's a chip or something."_

"_Jesus, don't get your panties in a bunch," Craig muttered, but he understood the gravity of the discovery and slipped out the door as quickly and quietly as he had entered, leaving Bebe alone with the soft pulsation coming from the unconscious man's head. She shivered and diverted her gaze. _

_She could handle wounds and cuts without a flinch. She dealt with surgeries and managed to treat and heal organs and limbs looking so bad that they would have made her throw up when she was younger. However, the gentle beating from that chip was more than she could handle._

_They knew that Cartman was brainwashing his men. It was common knowledge amongst those against Cartman's ruling. How he did it, they didn't know, but it was obvious. Throughout history there had always been men in the armies who questioned their leader's motives, or broke down as they couldn't handle the blatant cruelty and lack of humanism that was war. La Résistance had experienced several of these mental breakdowns, even if they knew that they were fighting for the right cause._

_Cartman's men were, unlike the rebels, recruited by force, but none of them ever expressed even the slightest hint of doubt when they were battling. She doubted that men and women who had been hiding to escape the clasps of the military would experience such a drastic change of mind._

"Let go of me, you donkey-raping shit-eater!"_A familiar voice called from down the hall. _

_Craig came back through the door, dragging very annoyed Ike by the arm. Said Canadian was clearly about to go to bed, as he was dressed in pajama pants and had a red toothbrush held tightly in his fist. He had apparently been caught in mid-action too, as he had the look of a man heavily infected with rabies with white foam on his lips and at the corners of his mouth. _

_Bebe fought to keep a smile down._

_Craig allowed the young man to free himself, slightly bemused as he had expected more of a fight from a man three inches taller and five years his junior, but clearly he was mistaken. Rubbing his abused arm, Ike didn't look very happy either. Making the decision to ignore the stoic pest, Ike turned to Bebe and arched a brow in true Broflovski fashion._

"_Would you mind telling me why this bonehead found it necessary to kidnap me in the middle of the night?" Ike asked, trying to keep his voice bored and disdainful, but too much of a kid to completely repress that part of him that was delighted to experience a midnight adventure._

"_Actually, yeah. I discovered-" A sharp cough from Craig cut her off. She glared at him and continued. "_We_ discovered something quite unusual. You, the mastermind of all things technological, should take a look at it and explain it to us plain mortals."_

_Ike blushed a lovely shade of red, but moved over to where she stood and bent down to see what she was talking about. Bebe gestured toward the visible inside of the man's brain. Wrinkling his nose, Ike muttered a request of gloves, which were handed to him._

"_I'm pretty sure I can't remove it without damaging the brain, and it's placed in the part of the brain that regulates pain," Ike muttered as he poked at the chip. "Not the kind of pain that only lasts for a second, like when you get burned and need to withdraw the offended limb, but rather the pain you feel when you've been stabbed or something. Should I try to get it out, I could accidently have him go into a shock due to the sudden pain, or it could actually hurt enough to close down his systems. He could die."_

_The last words fell softly from Ike's lips. Shaking his head to get rid of the sentimentality, Ike spoke up again, this time in a voice more sober._

"_Bebe, you have monitors, don't you? Get one over here, and I'll set it up. We probably won't be able to decode the signals, but it's a start."_

_Immediately on her feet, Bebe was about to fetch the requested instrument, but Craig beat her to it. Without as much as a word, he disappeared into the closet where she stashed the medical machinery. He came back, rolling the monitor in front of him. Surprised, Ike eyed him, but kept quiet as he created a link between the monitor and the chip in the man's head._

_When the signal appeared on the monitor, Bebe couldn't hold back the surprised gasp. After working as a medic for as long as she had, she'd recognize a heartbeat in, well, a heartbeat._

_As the two men looked up at her, she explained to them. "That's a heartbeat, or at least it's what it looks like. I'd say that it belongs to a man of average physic, but since it's night and the owner is presumably sleeping, it could also belong to an overweight man resting."_

_Judging by the looks on their faces, Bebe assumed that they had come to the same conclusion as she had._

"_So, you're telling me," Craig spoke up for the heck of it, "That there's a chip with Cartman's heartbeat inside the head of one of his soldiers?"_

"_Or several of them." Ike looked at the soldier in disgusted fascination._

"_So it would seem." Bebe nodded. "But why?"_

_Ike shrugged. "As long as it's in there, I can't really do any testing" He glanced at them both with hard eyes. "Don't bother asking Kenny for permission either. There's a difference between killing a man in self-defense and turning his brain to mush in experiments."_

_Bebe nodded, possibly understanding better than Ike himself. Even Craig kept his mouth shut, for once passing up the opportunity of calling Ike a pussy-assed fag._

_Two days later, the man died from his severe wounds, never having regained consciousness. The chip was handed over to Ike, who, only hours after receiving it, barged in on a meeting. The others attending the gathering quickly came over the annoyance over Ike skipping it in the first place, as the news he carried were nothing short of astounding. The signal let out a stimulus that slowed down the impulses of pain, but since only the brain was affected, the basic reflexes remained._

_However, should the signal cease, the chip would send out a wave of electricity, enough to send the receiver's body into a state of so much pain that they died._

_In short, when Cartman fell, so would his empire. _

_Like vampires, as someone had said. Get the source and the rest will follow._

_One year earlier (because I'd rather not have this in the epilogue)_

_Ze Mole, a.k.a. Christophe DeLorne, or Chris, as his mother called him, dragged a sack of canned beans in tomato sauce over the dirty ground that was made out of just that, stomped dirt._

_He was in the middle of restocking his seventh underground hideout, not counting the one in a cave in Aspen or the two in Mexico. Some might say, although it was generally considered to be very stupid to openly disagree with or insult Ze Mole, that he was paranoid. Christophe himself preferred _practical_._

_But nevertheless, restocking, according to Christophe, sucked harder than God himself. Almost. Finding food was not too troublesome, and if someone wasn't too eager on giving up their supplies, well, that was why he carried a gun. And a shovel. Even in times of war, one should never forget about disposing the evidence that came from one's actions._

_No, getting food wasn't the problem; the problem was that as he traveled between his hideouts, the food had to be either canned or dried. Christophe hated all sorts of animals, especially guard dogs, and he knew from experience that many kinds of rodents were drawn to dried food, which only left cans. This would have been fine as well, if it weren't for the fact that just about all of his cans held the same content. White beans in tomato sauce._

_Christophe had come to hate beans. And tomatoes._

_Still, food was food and he would eat it, even if he cursed God for every bite._

_That had been the thought, at least, as he continued walking along the long, dark isle. This particular hideout had been a mine many years ago, stone and rubble now cut off both endings. As so, the only way to get inside was through one of the exits that Christophe had dug, one by each end of the three mile long tunnel._

_Unless, of course, one did as Stanley Marsh and came crashing through the roof of the tunnel, bringing with him earth, stone, grass and three friends, all crammed together in a small and very abused creation of metal that vaguely resembled a car, if one looked past the numerous bullet-shaped holes and the windows that had been reduced to shards._

_From above, he heard loud sirens and a strong, bright light was directed at the hole the car had created._

_For once in his life, Christophe was stunned to silence. _

"_Fucking sheet!_

_Almost._

_Stanley Marsh stared at him dumbly, as did his companions, apart from a dark-haired man whose focus was on the ruckus above. Christophe remembered him vaguely from the American-Canadian war. He also remembered that he didn't like him, when the dark man flipped him off._

"_Uh, hi?" Stanley said, more as a question than an actual greeting, sounding just as stupid as he looked._

"'_Ello." _

_Thankfully, being around morons made Christophe regain the control of his mind. In a swift motion, the mercenary had his shovel, the rusty metal glimmering dangerously, not so safely tucked against Stanley's throat. _

"_Move azide, I'm taking ze wheel."_

_Eager to get away from the menacing shovel, Stanley scrambled to the side and left room. Without as much as a glance at those already in the car, Christophe jumped in and forced the vehicle to move forward at an alarming rate, while still in the mine, which was now thankfully lit up by the lights on the car._

"_Are you Ze Mole?" Stanley asked tentatively, not willing to anger the intimidating man driving his car. _

"_Oui, and when I 'ave you back where you belong, you will pay for what you deed to my lair, beetches."_

_Christophe scowled at the other residents in the car, who cowed and shrunk back. Satisfied with himself, he drove the car toward the exit that would take them to the middle of a forest, where he hid his jeep._

_Many years ago, the fat bastard that ran the country he was in had gotten Christophe killed, but a boy named Kenny had sacrificed himself for the humanity, and thus brought him back to life. He still owed him for that__,__ and had promised himself that he'd pay back the debt some day. Bringing four of Kenny's friends back to him safely would be a good way to pay him back._

_Ze Mole never broke a promise, at least not those he made to himself._

Present time, 2030.

All over the nation, radios were pulled from their places hidden within cupboards and closets. They had been banned long ago, together with TVs, newspapers, telephones and the internet. The only means of contact were that face to face, and the only news brought to the Americans came through the military. There were stories circulating, tales of parents who wished to make a child happy or a birthday special by putting on an on Disney movie to see smiles on the children's faces, but had their doors kicked in as they were watching and taken away before the eyes of their kids.

For a long time, these things had been a source of constant fear. Lately, however, rumors had spread, rumors that brought the hope people needed in order to dare drag their old radios out. No one really knew which bird had sung first, but it didn't change the message; words were that Lady Justice had finally realized her mistake and ridden the world of the burden that was Eric Cartman.

Encouraged but still doubting, the Americans soon found themselves twisting and turning on the buttons of the radio to find a station.

In the Burke family, the oldest daughter Julie was in charge of the radio during the evenings. For five days she had sat by it and zapped between the channels in order to find anything of interest, not really believing that she would find what she was looking for. Thankfully, whenever the urge to just smash the old thing and leave the room became too strong, her mother glared at her from the other side of the room, where she sat and played with her youngest.

Halfway bored to death, Julie switched channel every other second. Distracted by her own thoughts, she didn't notice the sudden change of tone, and would have continued if it weren't for her mother, who leaped from the couch with haste unbecoming a woman of her age. Lilly Burke, a hippie in her younger years, had never cared about what she should or should not do, and was quite willing to pay a week's worth of back pains if it meant that she could stop her mindless daughter.

Pushing the girl, who spluttered indignantly at her mother's harsh treatment, away from the radio, Lilly soon found the channel again. After a few minutes of nothing but buzzing and her daughter's whining, the radio gave a cracking noise, and soft swearing was heard in the background. Lilly leaned closer in order to hear what they said, but almost fell out of her chair at the sudden "_Cock_!"

"_Transmission seems to be working. How's the sound, Thomas?"_

A high, clear voice filled the room, instantly calling the rest of the family to gather.

"_Fuck! Shit! I'd say that it – Cock! – is working all right."_

"_Then maybe you should get away from the microphone. I mean, you're a great dude and all, but there might be children listening."_

Something happened on the other end of the radio, and the nervous, cursing voice was replaced by one clearly belonging to a female.

"_I'm sorry about the strange opening, people. We are new to this__,__ and the equipment doesn't belong to us. It belongs to Eric Cartman, but it's not like he can oppose to us using it, which brings me to our main subject. Six days ago, the opposition, La Résistance , managed to bring down Cartman once and for all."_

Even Julia was now listening, her eyes as wide and round as plates.

"_At approximately ten thirty on the evening of June the sixth, the leader of La Résistance, Kenny McCormick along with several of his men, gave their lives so that we can live in freedom once more. As you surely have noticed, this is a day of joy and celebration, a day of change."_

Mrs. Burke pulled her daughter into her arms, wearing a grin as genuine and brilliant as never before.

"_But I've learned something during these years. Don't you see? This time we barely managed to escape from the clutches of evil, and we have only started to pay off our debt. Many sons and daughters of this nation have fallen; a whole generation has been lost. And we're the ones better off._

"_Japan no longer exists, the northern parts of Europe__are unable to support their survivors due to barren soil. We're still at war, and only if we are extremely lucky will this war end with Cartman's death."_

"_It's easy to put the blame on a single man. Don't get me wrong, I hate Cartman just as much as the next man, probably more, but what we must remember is that nothing is ever the fault of a single man. We are all to blame for letting him advance as he did, for letting him fool us the way he did. Something like this cannot be allowed to happen again. It's an easy thing to say, but harder to pull through; at the end of the second world war, the general consensus was that it would be the last and only time for such an inhuman affair, but at the same time people wondered how it could happen in the first place."_

A guilty silence rested over the living room as the grins of victory slowly withered and died.

"_To prevent that anything like this would reoccur, we need to understand where we went wrong, how we managed to get ourselves into this mess. All we, my companions and I who fought in the final battle, wish for as a refund for your freedom is that you think over your previous actions. What could you have done but didn't do, what did you do that you shouldn't have done? Think about this long and hard, then pass this understanding down to your children. It's the only way."_

"_I'm begging you to take these words seriously; without you all, our goal is impossible. But for tonight, you are free from the burden of thought. Tonight, we celebrate, tomorrow, we rebuild. To contact us, please turn to your local military base. Further information will be released as soon as we have it, but at the moment, this is all we've got. This message will be repeated on this station until further notice. I thank you for listening; this is Wendy Testaburger, currently positioned at former President Cartman's base in Colorado. We wish you all a nice evening. God bless America."_

The transmission ended, before taking it from the very beginning, cursing and all.

* * *

There's this little competition I'd like to announce, if you even can call it that. You see, the review of a specific number (that's already chosen and I will give you a motivation on my page) can request a one-shot. Pairing, setting and plot is up to the winner to decide, just know that I'm not writing porn or erotica. It's not that I have anything against it; I just haven't written it before and wouldn't like to end up with something that sounds like the 40 year-old virgin.

The number is very close to the number I already have (41) as I'm not doing this just to get reviews, but rather as a mean to that all my dear readers.


	11. Epilogue

IMPORTANT NOTE! Chapter ten and the epilogue were uploaded at the same time, but as separate chapters. Please read chapter 10 before reading this. Enjoy!

* * *

Epilogue – A New Era is Approaching

August 6th, 2035.

The match lay in his hand, begging to be put to use, to be granted its five seconds of glory before dying. Or maybe the match somehow knew that even if it would soon burn out, the fire it was about to birth would not go out quite as silently.

Fatass's compound was about to fall.

For the last five years, it had stood empty. La Résistance had used the equipment for radio transmissions to spread the word that the world was free, but they left it as soon as they could. The soldiers had died where they had been standing, which meant that practically every room and every hallway was filled with the stench of human corpse.

To the recovering states of America, the building had been a memory more painful than a fork to the eyes. It would have been easy to tear it down, had there only been anyone willing to do so. It wasn't that anyone actually wanted the base to remain standing; just that no one felt like being the one soiled their hands and machines by coming in contact with the bricks and concrete that had been touched by the devil himself.

During the latest gathering of the National Council, the organization that was currently governing the states, it had been decided that the building had to be destroyed. Like remains from a horrid nightmare, it loomed over soil that refused to support life. To move on, the remains needed to disappear.

It would, however, be foolish to sweep the whole episode under the carpet, as Wendy confidently had stated during the meeting, much to the annoyance of the few old politicians that had managed to worm their way back into a position of power. They could move on and set their goals for the future, but they mustn't forget. Ever.

This was how Kyle found himself outside of the construction that to him was equal to hell. He had spent the last hours wandering the hallways, documenting everything he encountered with the help of a camera, which was now tucked safely in its case. Several times, the putrid smell had overwhelmed him and forced him to smash windows or flee the room. Still, he had worked his way through every floor, every room.

All except one, or maybe two, if one counted the adjacent bathroom.

There was no way in _hell_ that he'd let anyone know about his previous residing in the compound, especially not as the only thing that separated fatass' quarters from his own was a door. They would draw conclusions, and he'd rather they not come down in the history books.

With the decision of keeping his stay secret, he no longer had a reason to even open the door leading to his rooms. Yet, it called to him, and the sadistic side he didn't know he had responded.

The door didn't make a sound as it was opened.

A thick layer of dust lay as a grey blanket over the space he had once been forced to call his own. It had been one of the few rooms that didn't outright stink. No, the scent that lingered was of untouched furniture and old books, reminding him of an old library, oddly pleasant after hours of walking with bile halfway up his throat. Like a safe haven in the midst of the madness.

How deceiving scenery could be. It infuriated him, really. He wanted to tear down the curtains on his old bed for swaying so calmly back and forth in the breeze from the long broken window; rip out the sheets for being made, as if inviting a poor unsuspecting soul to give in and sleep, unaware of the darkness that surrounded them. He wanted to tear, rip, bite and claw; anything to break through the innocent façade and show the world the disgusting truth.

Yet, he found that he didn't have to. As he had walked the hallways, he had left a trail of gasoline behind, as well as thoughtfully placed packages of explosives. With a mere flicker of light, he would take down the facility once and for all. The power lay in his hands.

"This must be how God feels like," he muttered and chuckled without humor.

True, he felt powerful, but unlike many others, he never enjoyed being in control of others. To him, control meant responsibility, and when it concerned living beings, it meant that he had to ensure their safety and happiness. He couldn't handle that kind of pressure. He had become very aware of that after Fatass' fall, when he was forced to turn down several positions that had felt too heavy.

He lit the match against his boot and watched it come to life, turning the wood black as the flames licked at it. Only seconds before it died, he dropped it to the ground, on the trail of gasoline that led to the building a few hundred feet away. At first, it would seem that he had been too late, or that the match had gone out as it fell. Nevertheless, the sharply-scented liquid caught fire, a fire that quickly spread along the path.

The earth was dead and barren, without leaves or grass that could catch fire, ruined by fatass and his toxic waste. He stood by the only thing that remained; an old tree, just as lifeless as the soil.

The fire had reached the compound, and the first explosion told him that it had reached the first set of explosions. Like domino-bricks where one dragged down the other, the first explosion set of those nearby, starting a chain reaction. The blasts were small enough to leave him unaffected, not counting the sudden hot breeze that swept by.

While one of the explosions wouldn't have been enough, the collective force of them soon had the building crumpling. Bits and pieces fell off, still burning,

A floor in the middle gave in first; he had managed to get three of its supporting pillars. The force of the collapse cracked the pillars on the floor below, and so it continued, with the floors above falling to pieces due to the quivering body of concrete and stone underneath.

"So this is it," he mumbled and smiled sadly as his former prison had turned into a giant bonfire, with a column of black smoke escaping the smoldering rubble. "This is all that remains of your glorious empire."

He laughed bitterly and gave the ground an angry kick, sending dirt flying.

"No, that's a lie. Even though you're gone, your memory still torments us; you're the reason people think twice before trusting their neighbor, why children are scared of sleeping with the light off. You have sullied them, tainted them, and left a trace in their lives they can never rid themselves off. Their lives were destroyed because of you. _My _life was destroyed by you."

He glared at the fire and found that if he concentrated hard enough, he could see Fatass' face among the flames, hair snapping in an imaginary wind and teeth that sparkled in a mouth twisted into a smirk.

"I wonder if you truly know what you have done, the pain and suffering you have inflicted on others. Surely you must know in terms of words, but I doubt that you could imagine how we felt, how we feel. You are a monster, never thinking of anyone but yourself, perhaps because you can't. Guess I'll never know."

His face scrunched in confusion as he stared into the grinning face.

"Yet, you had your moments, didn't you? When we were kids, you saved my life more than once. Butters is crappy at keeping secrets, you know; I've known about California since fifth grade. After all the time you spent trying to kill me, you hauled your fat ass down to San Francisco not only to rescue me, but also my family. I hate you, I'll always hate you, but I'll always be thankful for that.

"That's why I can't bring myself to say your name, you know. It's the ultimate connections, tying the last string that connects Cartman and Fatass." He smiled, almost fondly but with just a bit too much darkness lingering in his eyes. "To me, there will always be two of you; the kinda, sorta friendish guy, and the evil dictator."

The sound of footsteps approaching reached his ears, but he didn't turn around. He knew who it was.

Out of his chest-pocket he fished up a braid. Once upon a time, the hair in that braid had been of a shining crimson color, but time and dust had matted the liveliness. However, when the braid was fastened on a low branch of the old, dead tree, the moonshine made it sparkle back to life.

"This is my last goodbye to the both of you; for Fatass, the final token of my captivity, a sign of my freedom, if you will. It might seem stupid, but the fact that I couldn't even make the decision to cut my own hair was below degrading. In this time, a time of restoration and rebirth, it's time to let go of our old pains. Eric Cartman, I hope that whatever sliver of soul you had may rest in peace, even if I doubt it."

With a last glance at the burning inferno, he turned from the scene and met the eyes of his old friend.

"Just wanted to make sure that everything was under control," Stan replied nonchalantly while digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. His eyes refused to meet Kyle's.

"It's me you're talking about, I'm fine, obviously," Kyle couldn't help but tease as he caught up with Stan, who nudged his ribs.

"So you say, but I can recall at least three accidental forest fires on your part, ass hat."

"Who says they were accidental, douchebag?"

The sound of their teasing grew distant as the slowly left the ground of their former friend's base. Neither one of them noticed that on the ground by the three, amidst the black flakes fallen from the sky, as a result of the fire, grew the unopened bead of a lonely flower.

_Fin_

* * *

Not sure how I feel about ending this, I mean, sure it's nice to have the burden of writing this story off my shoulders, but I have really loved writing it. Really, really loved it, and all of you who have taken the time to read it as well. Which is why I'll do this...

ATTENTION!!

There's this little competition I'd like to announce, if you even can call it that. You see, the review of a specific number (that's already chosen and I will give you a motivation on my page) can request a one-shot. Pairing, setting and plot is up to the winner to decide, just know that I'm not writing porn or erotica. It's not that I have anything against it; I just haven't written it before and wouldn't like to end up with something that sounds like the 40 year-old virgin.

The number is very close to the number I already have (41) as I'm not doing this just to get reviews, but rather as a mean to that all my dear readers. Hope you'll come back to the next one I'll be writing.^^

Responses to reviews will be sent as PMs this time.

PICTURE: lotsofdarkroses . deviantart . com / art / SiS - The - End - 123464073


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